One of Those Days COMPLETED!
by Batgrrl
Summary: Nightwing wakes up on the wrong side of the bed, and things just go downhill from there... T for naughty words and violent situations.
1. One Of Those Days Chapter 1

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STANDARD DISCLAIMER: These are not my characters. These are just my words. DC owns 'em, I just lie to their parents and tell them they're sleeping over at a friend's house so they can go out and have fun more than once a month.  
  
Reviews, kudos, rotten tomatoes welcome. This is my first time and its almost 4am, so be gentle.  
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One of Those Days, Part I  
  
You ever have one of those days? You know, where you just seem to get up on the wrong side of the bed and step on the sharp thing you left there the night before and things just go downhill from there? Well, today is that day for me. In spades.  
  
It all started with the phone call. Did you know that a telephone's ring is at the same frequency as a baby's cry? That's what makes you want to pick it up. That and social conditioning, I guess. I dunno; I dropped out of college before I got a chance to major in sociology. Or anything else. College and vigilantism don't mix, at least not when you've got a secret identity to protect.  
  
And what professor would take 'Sorry about the midterm; I was off-planet fighting an alien menace' as an excuse anyway?   
  
But back to the phone. Its still ringing. I squint blearily at the clock. Seven a.m. Its been about 52 minutes since my head hit the pillow. The phone rings again. I answer it in my best 'I was sleeping' voice.   
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"Rise and shine, rookie! You don't want to be late for briefing! You've got a half hour."  
  
"Good morning to you, too, Amy," I mutter to the dial tone, and hang up. I guess she's not a morning person, either.   
  
I literally drag myself out of bed, yawning. A whole hour's sleep. That brings this week's grand total up to what, four? Thank God its Thursday. I look around for my uniform (the other uniform; you know, the one with the badge?) and swear. Dry cleaners has my only clean one and I haven't had a chance to pick it up. A rash of muggings will do that to your schedule.   
  
I throw on some sweats and head out, running into Clancy on the way. She beams me a smile and offers me a cranberry muffin. I have to take it, seeing as how I told her I loved the nasty little things once upon a time. If the Scarecrow knew how his nerve gas had affected me he'd be laughing his skinny little rear end off.   
  
"An' how is me favorite tenant this fine morning?" she coos, looking at me with those big green eyes. As much as I love Irish accents, I have to resist the urge to say something nasty back to her and smile instead.   
  
"Great." Ah, yes, the infamous playboy charm. I must get my conversation skills from Bruce.  
  
"An' you're not forgettin' our little date this evening? It is, after all, the anniversary of your movin' into this fine establishment, and I wouldn't want to be makin' you feel all neglected now would I?" She grins that impish little grin, eyes dancing, and I start to cheer up a little. Maybe this day won't be so bad after all.  
  
"Of course I haven't forgotten," I lie through my teeth to her. "I'll be here with bells on."  
  
Her eyes narrow, dangerously. "Just see that y'are, boyo. I'll not be takin' kindly to another cold shoulder."  
  
She gives me one more warning look for good measure then turns and heads back into her apartment, calling over her shoulder, "Six o'clock sharp! I've made reservations!"   
  
I yell back something affirmative through a yawn and more fall than walk down the stairs, headed for the dry cleaner's. Let's see... 7:45, that gives me fifteen minutes to make the briefing. Good thing I'm used to changing clothes in weird places.  
  
"Pink!?"   
I know I'm yelling, and the small Slovakian man behind the counter shrinks visibly as my tone of voice slips dangerously close to Nightwing levels.   
"What the hell is this?"  
  
The little man apologizes profusely. "Sir I am so so sorry, please, it was a sock, red one mixed in and we didn't get to it in time and the whole order like this, I give you for free, please..."  
  
He looks like he's about to have an heart attack, and I suddenly feel guilty, knowing the poor guy is probably hardly staying afloat as it is. I mean, in this neighborhood who gets dry cleaning? I think I'm one of five customers. I should've known something was up when there was a line of irate people in front of me all holding various articles of clothing that, upon reflection, should probably not have been pink. But hey, who am I to judge a man's underwear? People who wear Superman boxers shouldn't throw stones.   
  
I pay my bill, still grumbling. Now not only am I late, but I'm pink. I am never gonna hear the end of this one.  
  
"Glad you could make it, Rainbow Brite."   
I find a seat in the back amid snickers from my fellow officers, my face burning. "Sorry we had to disturb your fashion makeover for our silly little briefing. We'll try to get you out of here in time for your manicure."   
  
The sergeant smirks as the room erupts into laughter. I smile thinly and brace myself for the worst, but thankfully the docket's full of important news so the condition of my shirt just gets passing mention. As he goes into the rash of muggings, I feel my eyes starting to close. I already know this stuff and he seems into some goofy diagram he's drawing on the chalkboard about how there might be a pattern to the attacks, something I've already considered and dismissed by reading through the evidence. I figure its okay if I shut them for a minute...  
  
I awaken with a start to the sound of an electric razor near my face, opening my eyes just in time to see four of my fellow rookies grinning from ear to ear as McGuffin, the practical joker, starts laughing like crazy. He's the one holding the razor. The other guys follow suit as I put a hand to my head, fearing the worst and mentally cursing myself for falling asleep so easily. Bruce would be so disappointed. Thank God all my hair's there; I must've woken up in time. It looks like the briefing is long over; we're the only ones left in the room.   
  
"Thanks, McGuffin," I grumble, standing. He grins.   
  
"Hey, don't blame me. I had to do something to draw people's attention away from that godawful shirt, Pinky."   
  
The other guys laugh and Pinky becomes my new nickname, carrying on a time-honored tradition of hazing the new guy by giving him a nickname that reminds him of his most embarrassing moment. I guess its better than Boy Blunder.   
  
"I'm just glad I woke up in time," I respond as I move towards the door, where Amy is waiting with a sour look on her face. The amusement in her eyes betrays her true feelings. The guys are still snickering behind me.   
  
"You ready, Pinky?"   
  
I give her a look and she glances from my shirt to my face, finally allowing a smile to creep across her lips.   
  
"Let's go."   
  
I ignore the odd looks and laughter as we make our way to the squad car, but I can't suppress a sigh of relief as I slide into the passenger's side and buckle my seat belt. Thankfully, the morning is uneventful and the coffee does wonders for my state of wakefulness. I decide I need to put some chocolate-covered coffee beans into the utility belt; beats the heck out of caffine pills. I tilt the cup up for the last gritty swallow when Amy jams on the brakes, causing the coffee to run out the sides of my mouth and onto my pink shirt. There's a call on the radio for backup over at Sixty-Third and Vine. Officer needs assistance.   
  
Amy hits the lights and takes off as I study my twice-ruined shirt. I think the coffee's an improvement.  
  
We arrive on-scene to find a domestic dispute of sorts going on. Seems a hooker and her pimp were having a falling out in the middle of the street and when the officer responded to a donut shop owner's request to remove them they both turned on him. The owner panicked and called us and we arrived to a good ol' down-home tail chewing. Officer Marx was on the receiving end.   
  
Amy and I get out of the car, her hand on her gun, mine by my side. That's a bridge I don't even want to think about crossing. We approach the happy couple as the woman insults Marx's parentage in a way I haven't heard since Juvie. Fortunately my shirt defuses the situation as all three just stop and stare at me for a long moment before breaking into peals of laughter. Maybe I should make my other uniform pink, too.  
  
We get the situation cleared up rather easily after that; Mr. and Mrs. Pimp decide its too early for this discussion and that they'll resume Round Two after a nice long nap. I envy them briefly as Marx looks me up and down.   
  
"Yeah, I know. Save the the smart-ass comments. They've all been made already," I snap at him, and he raises his hands defensively, grinning.   
  
"Hey, alright. Don't get touchy, Officer Unibrow."   
  
Unibrow? I bend over and look into the rearview mirror, frowning, and a second later my newfound nickname reveals its source: my right eyebrow's been shaved off. Looks like I wasn't as quick as I thought. My suprise must show in my face because now Marx and Amy are both laughing so hard they're leaning on the hood of the squad car. I eye Amy balefully.  
  
"You knew the whole damn time!"   
  
She nods, still laughing, and there's a hint of meanness in her eyes, as if she's glad that I've gotten my comeuppance. Just what I've done to deserve my uppance come'd is up to debate. She thinks I got the call dishonestly. I didn't, but I don't know who did pull my number yet, or why. Just another failure to add to an already busy day. I check my watch; its not even noon yet. I get comfort in the fact that this is great cover for my rookie cop story as I pluck at my coffee-moistened shirt. Its cold comfort. Cold, wet, sticky comfort. With one eyebrow.  
  
Thankfully, the rest of the day passes relatively uneventfully. I manage to get mustard on my shirt at lunch and consider it a lucky break, because it means there's a heated argument over what my nickname should be. 'Pinky' is still the strong favorite, but that's just because the rest of the guys haven't heard about what happened after I left the station. Yet. Journalists have nothing on the gossips on the force, let me tell you. Amy argues against Unibrow, since the evidence will disappear after a few days and a rather hirsute second year veteran named Burzetti has already laid claim to it. Hirsute? I must be waking up.   
  
Its almost five. Pigpen, Calamity and Rainbow Brite are distant runners-up.   
  
I sneak into the locker room after shift change and find a sippy cup in my locker. You know, the kid's drinking glasses that won't tip over because they're rounded on the bottom and have the little built-in straw? Its filled with pink Kool-Aide. Har har. I leave it in McGuffin's locker since he's off tomorrow and hope that by Monday the smell is enough to half pay him back for my eyebrow. I find myself looking forward to tonight. Maybe I'll swing by Babs'. God knows I could use a little cheering up.   
  
I swing around the last building and the clock tower comes into view.   
  
Ah, the wind in my face. Ah, the feel of a jumpline in my hands. Ah! There's some guy in Babs apartment and he's not wearing pants!  
  
I had landed silently on the balcony and peeked into the window to see if I could catch a glimpse of Babs at work. She's just adorable when she's typing away at the computer, that serious look on her face, lost to the real world. Sometimes she'll smile at something someone says or types and I have to smile too, even though I'm on the outside of the in-joke.   
  
Looks like I'm more on the outside than I thought. The lights are all on, the guy doesn't look like a prowler. Hell, he looks downright comfortable. In Babs apartment. With his pants off. And then I hear Babs voice come from the bedroom. I can't make out the words but its got that teasing tone, the one I've only heard her use with me, when we banter. Usually it begins with me asking her for some favor or another. Tonight I don't want to ask. I don't want to know. Maybe its innocent.   
  
I take a quick mental snapshot of the room. There are flowers on the table and it looks like dinner was set for two. At least they blew the candles out. Safety first.   
  
Maybe its innocent. And maybe I'm Batman. I leave the way I came, silently, and wish I'd never gotten out of bed.  
  
Muggings. Think about the muggings. I crouch on the edge of the roof of some pizza joint, rocking on the balls of my feet, watching the alley below. A stray newspaper blows through, tossed like a ghost on the fickle winds of some redhead woman's whims. I shake my head at the metaphor, scolding myself. Its not like I've been a monk; hell, its not like we've even been dating. Offically. I just thought--   
  
I shake my head again. Think about the muggings, Grayson. You can do it. There's been, what, twelve in the past two weeks? Whoever he is, he's being careful not to set a pattern. Too careful. Different areas, different victims, different times of night -- even one or two during the day. Nobody sees anything, not even the victims. They just know its a guy because he's big and fast. And brutal. Or maybe everyone assumes muggers are men. Women aren't known for physical crimes. They're more of the steal your heart then stomp on it types. And who was that mook anyway? Who stands around in someone's living room without their pants on? Who--   
  
Who the HELL WAS THAT?  
  
My reverie is broken by a flash of movement below me. A fast flash of movement. Not a Flash-fast flash (try saying that five times fast), but whoever it was, was truckin'.   
  
I decide to keep my presence to myself and follow him silently, jumping from rooftop to rooftop as he slows. He goes into stalk mode like flipping a switch, and I see the object of his sudden attention: lone woman, northbound on Harbor, heading away from the shipyards. Working girl from the looks of her, tired after a long shift. I can empathize. Later. Right now let's just make sure she gets home.  
  
She turns down an alley, a rather dark alley, but its between a closed-down factory and an equally abandoned warehouse. Maybe she figures noone would be here. Normally she'd be right. Looks like this shortcut may be a habit of hers. I'll try to keep it from becoming a fatal one.  
  
Speedy makes his approach like a cat stalking its prey. He even kicks a can so it scuttles noisily into the darkness, letting her know she's not alone and obviously enjoying the terrified reaction it gets. Like a cat with a mouse. I narrow my eyes and jump soundlessly from the ledge, not bothering with a jumpline. I think I'll use him to break my fall. I'm looking forward to this little altercation. I've got a pink shirt and a pantsless man's worth of bad day to beat out of this guy.   
  
He must have eyes in the back of his head, because he's moving almost before my feet hit his back, twisting so that what should've been a knockout turns into a glancing blow. I roll with the impact, managing to avoid getting the wind knocked out of me, and get to my feet just as he's on me, a knife flashing in the light of the one remaining streetlight. I duck once, twice -- have I mentioned this guy's faster than hell? -- and backflip a few times for good measure. Its not a big knife, but it doesn't have to be a big knife to kill you. And Kevlar won't stop a blade. I can hear the woman running off, the echo of her feet fading suddenly as she clears the other end of the alley. At least she's safe, or as safe as she can be in this city.   
  
Now let's see about me.   
  
This is rapidly moving from routine stop to fight for my life. He's ducking and dodging and weaving and slashing and I can barely stay one step ahead of him, yet I get the downright eerie feeling that he's holding back for some reason. Maybe its just because of the lack of sleep. I'm obviously not at my prime. I know it. Heck I think even he knows it. He slashes again, and I manage to somersault over it and land my first punch of the evening. It hits his nose with a satisfying crunch and I suddenly feel that much more in stride. Now I'm on the offensive. I pull a Wonder Woman as I deflect his blade with my gauntlets, even getting in another blow, this time to his chin. He reels and I take a tiny moment to gloat. Just a second, not even a second.   
  
Its enough. The knife flashes out and I hiss as the sharp sting lights a line of fire across my stomach. Its not bad, a scratch really, but it hurts, and from the look in his eyes -- all I can see are his eyes, under the hat and the trenchcoat -- is one of smug satisfaction. He takes one, two more swings at me, I duck and whirl like a dervish on speed and end up right-side up, fist cocked and ready to fire...at nothing. He's gone. Poof. I thought only Batman could pull that brand of vanishing act. I start a methodical search of the area, going to the rooftops for a better view. Nothing. He must've had some bolt hole or something. Fast as he was, he wasn't _that_ fast. I curse under my breath and look at the time on my gauntlet. 2:30. Might as well call it a night.  
  
I can barely climb through the window when I finally get home. I almost slip as I slide up the sash. Apparently there's a city bus driver's strike so no convienent #76 to hop on the roof of and bum a ride home on. I end up roofing it the whole way, and my arms are not happy with me at all.  
  
I peel off my clothes, wincing at the cut, and take care of it and the rest of my stinky self in the shower. Its only when I come out that I notice there are five messages on my answering machine. I hit play as I towel my hair, then drop the towel, then myself, onto the floor and hold my head in my hands.  
  
All the messages are from Clancy. Or should I say the one long, angry message that's spread over five messages is Clancy. They/it end with, "And I'll never forgive you so long as there's breath in my body, MISTER Grayson! I am never speaking to you again!"  
  
I rest my head on my knees and just sit for a minute, too depressed to cry. I feel like a country song. How's that joke go? What do you get when you play a country song backwards? You get your wife back, your dog back, your house back, your job back...   
My personal country song must be on fast-forward.  
  
I decide I've had enough damage to my person tonight and vow to face Clancy in the morning as I crawl up from the floor into bed, too tired to even brush my teeth. With the way my luck's going they'll probably fall out of my head as I sleep anyway. I close my eyes just as the sky begins to pink in the east. Pink. A final salvo from the last 24 hours. But as Scarlett says, tomorrow is another day.   



	2. One Of Those Days Chapter 2

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STANDARD DISCLAIMER: These are not my characters. These are just my words. DC owns 'em, I just lie to their parents and tell them they're sleeping over at a friend's house so they can go out and have fun more than once a month.  
  
Reviews, kudos, rotten tomatoes welcome.   
  
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Thank God Its Friday, was my first thought as my alarm shrieked out its own particularly annoying brand of good morning. I hit the snooze and rolled over onto my back, stretching. My good mood lasted all of thirty seconds because one, my eyebrow started itching like crazy, and two, I realized I had no clean uniform. Not even a pink one.  
  
I get up and head for the bathroom, grumbling. The combination of my now barely-there eyebrow and bedhead from sleeping on wet hair last night do not improve my mood one bit, nor does the icky taste in my mouth. I vow that'll be the last time I go to sleep without brushing my teeth and turn on the tap.   
  
I wait. And wait. And there's no water. At all. I crank the handle, getting a bit peeved. One moist bubble pops out of the faucet and splatters the sink. The water's a bit rusty.   
  
Now who could've turned off the water, I wonder to myself sarcastically as I dig a very wrinkled shirt out of the hamper and proceed to plug in the iron with possibly more force than necessary. Yes, I know how to iron. I did live with Mr. Clean for, what, nine years? You pick up a few things. Like you need steam to get wrinkles out of a cotton shirt. And steam comes from water. And the water is not on. Which means you have to go beard the landlady in her den.  
  
God, I hate Fridays.  
  
I knock on Clancy's door, softly, almost too soft to hear. But she hears. Its like she was waiting for me to arrive. She hauls open the door and if looks could kill, I'd be six feet under. I put on my best contrite-little-boy face, gazing at her pleadingly. I hope the wrinkled uniform makes me look pitiful enough to avoid being clobbered.   
  
"Clancy, I'm sorry about last night. I--"   
  
"Last night? Why, whatever could you mean, Mister Grayson?"   
  
She snaps the fingers of one hand, the other still behind the door as if she's ready to slam it in my face any moment. The mocking tone of her voice makes me wince.   
  
"Oh, that's _right_! We _did_ have plans last night, didn't we? But... you didn't show up. _Again_." Her eyes narrow and she stares me right in the eyes, then blinks. She cocks her head, and I'm waiting for her to realize that what looks off is my--  
  
"What happened to your eyebrow?"   
  
She's quick when she's mad.  
  
"I uh...practical joke. Guys on the force caught me napping during briefing."   
  
At least I didn't have to lie about that. I can feel my face reddening. She laughs, and its not a nice laugh. Its more of a 'good for whoever did it' laugh. I'm getting a lot of laughs like that from women lately. Thing is I actually deserve this one.   
  
"Yeah, I know. Look, I'm really sorry, I had a totally rotten day yesterday and just wanted to sort of hide from the world. Anyway, I really am sorry. I will make it up to you, I swear, as soon as I'm able to go back out in public without looking like an idiot, okay? My treat even. Dinner, dancing, whatever you wanna do."  
  
She looks like she wants to laugh at my eyebrow more, but cocks her head instead, regarding me coolly.  
  
"I'll think about it and get back to you."  
  
I nod, chastened.   
  
"Okay. That's up to you. But could you do me one favor? The water's off and I kind of need to--"   
  
That's as far as I get before she cuts me off.  
  
"Oh _I_ see! This isn't a 'I'm sorry' visit, this is a 'Clancy darlin' I'm needin' something from ya' visit!"   
  
She clenches her fists at her sides, eyes shooting little green sparks.  
  
"No! I mean, I do but no! I swear I just came down to apologize and since you are the super and..."   
  
Oh, this is not going well.  
  
"Oh, yes, I'm just the super, aren't I? Well you want water, I'll give ya water!"   
  
And the hand that I thought was holding the door is revealed instead to be holding a big, blue bucket, which is promptly emptied in my direction. I flinch and then shout as the cold water absolutely drenches me.  
  
"There! All the water you can stand, boyo! I hope ya drown in't!"   
  
She slams the door, leaving me standing in the hallway. A few of the tenants have poked their heads out, but jerk them back in as soon as they see me looking. Great. Not only am I wearing dirty laundry, its been soaked (and aired) in front of all my neighbors.  
  
I arrive late at the stationhouse once again, damp and still wrinkled. At least my shoes have stopped squeaking. The sarge just looks at me and shakes his head while the other guys laugh. I take a seat gingerly, trying not to shiver. Plastic seats are cold, colder when its air-conditioned, and colder still when you're wet. I wonder hazily if this is what Hell is like as the Sergeant goes into the rest of the briefing.  
  
I try not to smile as he talks about a mugging victim who managed to escape when 'another mugger' interfered with the first one. Great. Now I'm just another mugger. The Sarge goes over this detail with interest, offering up several hypothesis on whether the two were working together and the relationship soured or... I sit through about five minutes of this, trying hard not to roll my eyes. He finally moves into the recent spate of car thefts in the area, all late model but not new SUVs. Screams chop shop to me. Of course, its too early for leads.  
  
I make it through briefing and catch up with Amy, who gives me one look and tells me I'm not getting in her squad car like that. I shiver again as I apologize, again, for my appearance.   
  
"Grayson, I don't care how sorry you are, I-- Are you sick?"   
  
She looks me over critically, stifling a smirk with one hand as she takes in my eyebrow yet again. I fold my arms defiantly across my chest.   
  
"Nah, I'm alright." Great. With my luck I'm getting a cold on top of everything else. "Its just chilly in here."  
  
She peers at me.   
  
"Its seventy degrees in here, Rookie. Just go home. You look like you could use the sleep anyway."   
  
She turns and starts walking towards the squad cars, calling back over her shoulder, "That's an order."  
  
I sigh and decide to take her up on it. I'm cold, wet and miserable, and today is looking like a repeat of yesterday. Maybe this is a sign. Besides, I could use the sleep. Maybe I can head this cold off at the pass.   
  
I move back to my locker and open it. Its stuffed with towels. Used, sweaty towels. Boy I tell ya, if being a crooked cop in this city ever pans out, CarrotTop's going to have some stiff competition. I stuff the smelly towels in McGuffin's locker, change into my now-fragrant streetwear, and head home.  
  
I manage to sneak past Clancy's apartment without notifying her and make it up to my room, where I take just enough time to get out of my wet clothes before I fall onto the bed. I'm asleep before I feel my head hit the pillow.   
  
Nine hours later, I awaken to a very stiff, sore body. This is what happens when you're hyper-active; as soon as you slow down your body goes on strike. Man, do I ache. All I want is a hot shower and maybe some coffee. Funny, I haven't eaten all day and yet I'm nowhere near hungry. The thought of food is just plain unappetizing. Well, isn't it starve a cold, feed a fever?   
  
I jump in the shower (thanks, Clancy!) and slip into my other uniform, popping a few aspirin and a vitamin and forcing them down with some O.J. straight from the carton. Alfred'd have kittens if he saw me.   
  
I exit by my usual window route and decide to look for the chop shop mentioned at briefing this morning. After a longer than usual warm-up patrol to work this stubborn stiff-and-achiness out of my system, I finally find a late-model SUV and settle in to watch.  
  
It doesn't take long; the car is parked in an unsavory area, though its close to the theater where the well-dressed couple are undoubtedly headed. I get out the binocs and look the car over. He's used the Club; isn't that cute?   
  
After about an hour and a half, I get my break. A lone man, wearing what look to be gang colors, goes and leans against the car, looking both ways before trying all the doors. Bingo; its Mr. Perp's lucky day. He finds the passenger-side rear door open and hops in. It takes him all of ten seconds to cut the steering wheel and remove the Club. If he'd been an accomplished lockpick he could've had it off in under thirty seconds, but I'm guessing this guy isn't one for finesse. I'm proven right when he just rips off the steering column with a screwdriver.  
  
About fifteen minutes later, the perp is pulling up to an old 'abandoned' garage near the junkyard. The lights are on; somebody's home. I settle in, back against a warm chimney, and call on the powers of the all-knowing, all-seeing, all-heartbreaking Oracle.  
  
"Good evening and welcome to WBAB, all Babs, all the time."  
  
It feels good to hear her voice and in spite of everything, I find myself smiling.  
  
"Evening, Red."  
  
"Evening, Short-Pants. How's tricks?"  
  
"Silly rabbit, tricks are for kids."  
  
I won't ask, I won't ask. I don't wanna know. Just play it cool, Grayson. She wasn't expecting you anyway.   
  
"So, who was that guy at your place the other night?" Smooth, real smooth.  
  
Her voice is suprised. "How did you--" It then takes on an indignant tone. "Were you SPYING on me?!"  
  
"No! I was just in the neighborhood and... okay, I did stop by to see you, I'd had a bad day and I wanted to talk to a friendly face instead of the air like we usually do and I looked in to see if you were home and I saw..."  
  
She interrupts me. "Ted. You saw Ted."  
  
Ted! That's who that dork was. I'd met him once before and was less than impressed. That was at Babs' too. I'd brought over flowers and pizza.   
  
She continues on. "You remember Ted."  
  
"Yeah, I remember Ted, now. I just didn't recognize him without his pants on."   
  
Subtle, moi?  
  
Her voice changes again, unexpectedly to amusement.   
  
"You did get an eyeful, didn't you."   
  
What else was I supposed to have seen? I don't wanna know.  
  
"I saw enough."   
  
Even I can hear the petulance in my voice. I really need to grow up. Her personal life is none of my business. And I don't have much room to talk after the Huntress.  
  
"Dick..."  
  
"I'm on the clock now, Babs. Use Nightwing."   
  
I even try the Voice on her, partly to hurt her, partly to stop myself from hurting. Nightwing wouldn't be hurt by this information. Nightwing doesn't care if Babs is seeing some other guy, or why. Nightwing...needs to stop talking about himself in the third person.   
  
I have a brief flash of empathy for Two-Face.  
  
"Dick, what's wrong?"   
  
She's mad, I can hear it in her voice, but she's letting her concern for me override it. At least she still cares. A little. Probably like a sister.  
  
"C'mon, you said you had a bad day yesterday. What happened. Talk to me."   
  
I decide to swallow my pride and my hurt and take the offered olive branch. I tell her about the drycleaners and the shirt and the eyebrow and the mugging attempt that I sort of foiled. I even tell her about Clancy, and today. When I finish there's a long silence.  
  
"Babs? You there?"   
  
Her voice sounds strained, and I can tell she's probably had me on mute, because she's trying hard not to laugh. She sounds like she's near tears.  
  
"They shaved off your eyebrow?"   
  
She does laugh now, and so do I, a little. I guess its funnier when its not _your_ eyebrow. I tell her about the Kool-Aide and she laughs harder. Much as I'm mad at her right now, I do love her laugh. It kind of helps put things into perspective.   
  
"I did call you for a reason, you know," I state as the laughter dies down. "I need some information on an address."   
  
I tell her about the suspected chop shop and she promises to look into it, then puts me on hold for about a minute. When she comes back she's distracted and in pure business mode.   
  
"I've got someone on the other line. I'll have that information for you as soon as I can, probably tomorrow."  
  
I move to the edge of the building and shoot out a jumpline.   
  
"Okay. Thanks Oracle. I-- oop!"   
  
I fly forward, landing hard on my hands and knees. I glance back quickly behind me and blink.   
  
I just tripped. Over a concrete block.  
  
Her voice goes from distracted to focused worry in the time it takes me to regain my feet.  
  
"Nightwing? Come in! You okay?"  
  
"Yeah, fine. Just tripped over a brick."   
  
I sound disgusted with myself, and I am. I don't trip! Ever! What the hell is wrong with me?  
  
"You _tripped_?" She sounds incredulous. "Hold on."  
  
I sit on the edge of the building and catch my breath. My toe is still aching, and its reminded the rest of my body that it hurts, too. Gah.  
  
"Alright Short-Pants, I'm sending in Robin to spell you."   
  
She has that no-nonsense don't-argue-with-me tone to her voice that brooks no opposition. But she's no Batman.  
  
"Babs I'm fine. Okay? I just haven't been getting a lot of sleep lately and with the past few days I've had, I'm amazed I can walk and chew gum at the same time."  
  
She utterly ignores me.   
  
"He should be there in an hour. Oracle out."   
  
She breaks off the connection as I groan, shaking my head. Great. Just what I need, a mom and a babysitter who's half my age. I reel in the jumpline and try again, carefully. I'm more disturbed about the trip than I care to admit, but I push it in the back of my mind and decide to see what the car thieves are up to.  
  
I swing around the building, trying to keep warm and find a better vantage point. I finally settle in at the top of a church steeple which has an okay view of the skylight. Its mostly painted over, but there is one pane of glass that looks like it might've been recently replaced, and that's what I focus my attention on. I don't even look up when Robin arrives.  
  
I let him sneak up behind me until he's just reaching for my shoulder. I don't even turn around.   
  
"Hi, Tim."  
  
He immediately stops, folding his arms.   
  
"Aw, man! I almost had you. Didn't I?"  
  
I don't answer, concentrating on what's going on in the alleged chop shop. I can't really see much; just the hood of a car, the rest of it's under a tarp. Maybe this isn't the place after all. No action, no noises from power tools...  
  
"So how long did you know I was there?"   
  
Tim crouches beside me, trying to see what I find so interesting.  
  
"Since you landed. How's school?"  
  
He gives a disgusted little snort.   
  
"Man, I hate that place. Its an incubator for the future rich assholes of America."  
  
He goes on about a new kid as the wind picks up. I shiver again, crouching out of the way of the breeze. He stops mid-story and looks at me funny.  
  
"What's wrong?"  
  
"Just cold. Pretty stiff breeze."   
  
I glance at his cape a bit enviously. Short enough not to get in the way, long enough to huddle for warmth in. Maybe... nah.  
  
"You're cold? Dude, its like, seventy out here." He tugs at his collar for emphasis.  
  
"Yeah well, maybe I'm coming down with something, I dunno."  
  
Tim gives me the same look I used to give Batman when he told me some grevious wound or another was nothing.  
  
"Its nothing." Probably just the flu, anyway.  
  
"Yeah, well, don't give it to me. I don't need to be sent to the infirmary. Its bad enough I'm cooped up in the jail away from home as it is."   
  
He looks me over again, critically.  
  
"So you tripped?" He sounds like he doesn't believe it.  
  
I roll my eyes. "Make a federal case out of it, why don't you. Yeah, I tripped. Its no big deal."   
  
Except I never trip. But the way this week's been going...  
  
"Babs said to spell you even if I have to hit you over the head with a rock."   
  
He cocks his head, looking at me.   
  
"Do I need to get a rock?"  
  
I open my mouth to argue and my jaw starts to ache. I so don't need this now. This place is dead; they're probably waiting for a truck or something to pick up the cars (there's gotta be more than one) and take them to the shop. Its just a simple stake-out.  
  
"You watch and you follow. You do _not_ engage. I mean it. I don't know enough about these guys yet to go in and I don't want to lose this bust."  
  
He holds up his hands, grinning lopsidedly. "Hey, I know the drill. Now, allow me to escort you home."  
  
I glare at him, and know what he's thinking.   
  
"I don't need a babysitter, Twerp. I know my way home. And I want you here at the stakeout."  
  
He grins at me, obviously expecting this kind of argument, because he's already got a transmitter in his hand.   
  
"I'll be right back."  
  
I start to warn him not to go, but he's up and over the wall before I can grab him. I watch, cursing silently as he lands on the roof and props open the pane of glass I'd been looking in earlier. He loads the transmitter into his grappeling mechanism and fires, then nods in satisfaction and replaces the pane, giving me a thumbs up.  
  
I wait for him to return before chewing him out.   
  
"You could've ruined the whole thing! What if they'd had guards on the roof? What if they'd seen you? What if they'd had guns?"  
  
He eyes me, arms folded and head cocked.   
  
"Don't give me that. You've been sitting here for at least fifteen minutes since I got here, and there's been no movement. And a transmitter'll let me make sure you get home without getting...sidetracked, and still let me know if the truck moves."  
  
I glare at him. Smartass kid thinks he knows everything.   
  
Of course, if I were him, I'd have escorted myself straight home too. I've dealt with Batman for too many years to believe he'd just up and head home if he were feeling a little under the weather. I guess in some ways we're a lot alike.  
  
So are me and Tim.   
  
I sigh and throw up my hands, putting away the binoculars.   
  
"Alright, Mom. You wanna hold my hand while we cross the street, too?"  
  
He just grins at me. "Oracle's orders."   
  
He sticks out his hand and I put him in a headlock and give him a noogie.  
  
Back at my place the little runt tries to commandeer my mask. I tell him I'm not taking it off, he tells me he'll let the car thieves get away if he has to but he's not going to tell Oracle I was able to sneak out because he didn't take all necessary precautions. I sigh, knowing what's coming as I remove it.  
  
He lets out this strangled bark of laughter and I give him my best Batman glare. Too bad its rendered useless by the lack of both mask and eyebrow.  
  
"Dude...what--"  
  
I snap, "Practical joke by the guys on the force. I fell asleep in briefing."   
  
I'm definitely feeling snappish.  
  
He blinks. "You fell asleep in briefing? Whoa. Are you sure you're okay?"  
  
I just roll my eyes. "Go watch my garage before I toss you out the window."   
  
I move to the bathroom, stripping off my shirt. When I come out, I'm in my bathrobe and he's gone. I sigh irritably and close the window he left open, looking out to make sure he's not still there watching me, and decide to go patrol. I mean its only midnight, for Pete's sake.  
  
After five minutes I realize I'm in for the night. The little sneak has taken all my masks. All of them. He even left a note:   
  
Babs told me to!   
I'll bring them back when I'm done.   
I promise. Don't kill me.   
-- Tim  
  
I sigh, half-annoyed and half-impressed. I never would've thought of taking Batman's cowl to make sure he stayed in.  
  
Of course, I was never suicidal.   
  
I grin evilly and decide to relax by leaving the current Boy Wonder a little suprise to welcome him home, then down yet another vitamin-aspirin-OJ cocktail and climb into bed. I leave my gauntlet on the nightstand in case Tim runs into trouble and smile blissfully as I realize I'll actually get to sleep in. Heaven, thy name is Saturday. 


	3. One Of Those Days Chapter 3

----------------------------  
STANDARD DISCLAIMER: These are not my characters. These are just my words. DC owns 'em, I just lie to their parents and tell them they're sleeping over at a friend's house so they can go out and have fun more than once a month.  
  
Reviews, kudos, rotten tomatoes welcome.   
----------------------------  
  
I wake up around noon, squinting. Why is it that sunbeams seem able to find their way through cracks in the blinds in just such a way as to hit you right in the eyes, no matter where you are in the room?   
  
I close my eyes and roll over with a groan. The sleep has done me good, I can tell. Instead of screaming pain, its just a dull roar, mostly in my back. That could be from lying here for eleven hours. I can't remember the last time I had eleven hours sleep. Heck, I can't even remember the last time I got four.  
  
I lift my head up enough to see the couch. Tim's sprawled on it, under a blanket. He looks none the worse for wear, and didn't call me in, so I'm guessing it was a quiet night. I sit up and immediately regret it as a headache makes its presence known and a wave of dizziness hits me so that I have to fall back onto the pillow with a *WHUMP*.  
  
Tim lifts his head blearily and looks at me as I throw one arm over my eyes. Damn sun again.  
  
"You finally awake?" His tone is teasing.  
  
I mutter something about ungodly hours of the day and wait for the dizziness to subside before I get up. I really need to eat, I know I need to eat, but the thought of food is just plain nauseating. If I didn't know better I'd swear I was pregnant or something.  
  
"I been up longer than you have, pipsqueak." I mosey on over to the fridge and try to find something edible.  
  
"Yeah, by about thirty seconds." He grins up at me. "I found your bucket, by the way."  
  
I smirk. "I thought you might, it being balanced over the window and all."  
  
Mmm, toast. Toast for breakfast! I pull out a loaf and almost turn as green as the bread. Ew. Maybe not. I deposit it in the trash and keep looking.  
  
He grins smugly. "I figured that was just an obvious distraction. I found your little suprise in the fridge too."  
  
"What, a guy can't keep a big snake in the refrigerator just cuz?"  
  
I open a container of cottage cheese and close it. Quickly. Its a good thing I haven't had anything to eat recently; I'd be dead by now. That joins the bread in the garbage. I eye the milk warily as Tim brags.  
  
"Sure. But they're usually in a jar of peanut brittle or something. Not just ready to leap out at you when you open the door. Nor are they usually coated in peanut butter. Luckily I was able to disarm your little trap with no difficulty. You really are slipping, 'Wingster."  
  
I just smile and sniff the milk. Ooh, I bought milk recently? I check the date. The sell by is two days ago; I'm guessing its safe. Trouble is the scent of it still makes me wanna throw up.  
  
"So I guess we've proven just how far the student has come to overtaking the master."  
  
Tim decides to get up with that little pronouncement, and promptly falls to the floor with a suprised "Hey!"   
  
I turn around and grin at him, arms folded. He looks like a weird little caterpillar emerging from its cocoon, all tangled up in his blanket with the couch cushions stuck to him.  
  
"So I was at the 'cave the other day and I says to that little dude, Harold, I says, 'ya know what I need? I need a new solvent. Something that'll stick to anything. Skin, upholstery, you name it."  
  
Tim is just looking at me with big huge eyes, trying to get loose from the cushions and the blanket.   
  
You...you're evil. Evil!"  
  
I give him my best Joker-cackle. "You never know when you might want someone to stick around. Get it? Stick? Ah HAH!"   
  
I slap my knee as Tim stops struggling and looks up at me, defeated.  
  
I raise a finger. "Say it."  
  
He mutters, "You're the master."  
  
I cock a hand to my ear.   
  
"What? I couldn't quite hear you. You see, I don't have my transmitter. Its in my mask. And all my masks have _somehow_ disappeared."  
  
Tim rolls his eyes and says louder, "You're the master. At least you will be if you also asked him for a superglue remover."  
  
I move to the secret compartment and produce a small aerosol can. Its even got a little bat symbol on it. I hold it up for Tim's inspection, ignoring my aches and pains. They say laughter's the best medicine, after all.  
  
"You mean like this?"  
  
Tim breathes a sigh of relief.   
  
"You are the master, the one, the only, the first and best Robin the Boy Wonder, and I grovel at your ugly feet now LET ME UP!"  
  
"And don't you forget it, Grasshopper."  
  
I bend down and remove the blanket, spraying liberally, and in about a minute and a half the current Boy Wonder is separated from my couch with little more than a smattering of fine white dust to show anything had happened. Boy this is just neat stuff. Sometimes its good to be the superhero.  
  
Tim grumbles his way to the bathroom while I make him a bowl of cornflakes. Yes, I can make cornflakes. Well okay, its not really make, its more like assemble, but I can assemble breakfast like nobody's business.  
  
Tim returns, tossing my mask at me. "The rest are back in the closet." He wrinkles his nose at my culinary masterpiece.   
  
"Cornflakes? Don't we have anything else?"  
  
"I could make Jello."  
  
"Jello? For breakfast?"  
  
"Sure. There's always room for Jello!"  
  
He rolls his eyes. Definitely not a morning person. Or a midafternoon person, as the case may be. He sits down to his cornflakes while I start coffee.  
  
"So what'd you find out last night?"  
  
He swallows and tells me all about how he sat on that stupid building all stupid night and the only stupid thing that happened was three more stupid SUVs were driven into the place. That's it. No, he didn't see anyone leave. No, there wasn't a truck. No, the transmitter didn't move.   
  
"But I got a charley horse in my calf like you wouldn't believe, and I finally decided they were all asleep by the time the sun started to come up and headed back here."  
  
He finishes his bowl of cornflakes as I sit down with my coffee, and watches as I put spoonful after spoonful of sugar into it then water it down with milk.   
  
"Would you like a little coffee in your sugar?"  
  
He smirks as he gets up and pours himself a cup. I arch my half-grown eyebrow as I sip.  
  
"Well look who thinks he's all grown up."  
  
He gives me a dirty look as he sits back down, blowing on it. "And _I_ drink _mine_ straight, ya girly man."  
  
I grin at him and he grins back. Man, its nice having company. The only bad thing about it is how it makes you feel more alone after said company has flown the coop. Or maybe it just makes you realize how lonely you are.   
  
Bah, I'm getting sappy in my old age.  
  
"You know that stuff'll stunt your growth."  
  
I duck the salt shaker with a laugh and move to get what's become my usual breakfast of vitamin and aspirin. Orange juice and coffee just don't mix. Besides, I drank the rest of it yesterday.  
  
"When'd you start drinking coffee?"  
  
He shrugs, nursing the cup like its his last.   
  
"Late nights studying, cramming for tests... its a change from hot cocoa. Lots of guys at school drink it."  
  
I nod, bemused. I still can't quite get used to the idea of Tim in a boarding school, peer pressure and all. Apparently neither can Tim. He resumes telling me the story about the new kid and the spring break-type trip they took. Just as he's finishing up there's a chime from my computer. I'm actually feeling halfway human as I go to answer it.  
  
"Hey Dick." Babs' face lights up my screen. She looks tired. She sounds tired.  
  
"Have you slept yet?" I peer into the monitor, Tim coming up behind me.  
  
She shakes her head, taking off her glasses and pinching the bridge of her nose.   
  
"Not yet. I'm about ready to--"   
  
She puts her glasses on and looks back up only to bust out laughing. I turn just in time to see Tim making goofy faces and giving me bunny ears. I promptly put him in a headlock. Much scuffling ensues.  
  
"Boys, boys! You can fight over me later. I really need to get to bed."  
  
She's grinning as she says it, but there's an underlying seriousness to her tone that straightens us both up.  
  
"Alright, I'm gonna go shower. Dork."  
  
Tim whaps me across the shoulder as he heads for the bathroom. I hook him around the ankle with my foot as he walks past, making him stumble. Well, almost stumble. Kid's reflexes are really improving. Must be the coffee.  
  
"So what happened last night, anyway?" I peer into the screen, smile fading.  
  
"Oh, hotspots flaring up in the Mideast, nuclear arms smuggling, averting world environmental disaster. The usual for a Friday night."  
  
I blink, suprised.   
  
"And yet you still had time to sic Junior on me. I'm touched. Really."  
  
I hear a snort of protest and look up to see Tim in the bathroom doorway, making kissy faces at me. I whip the t-shirt decorating the back of my chair at him. He does the old 'someone's grabbing me' trick with his hand and pulls himself out of the way, closing the door. I can hear him laughing.  
  
"And its juuuust a bit outside..."   
  
Babs grins playfully, looking me up and down. "You need to work on your pitching, Grayson." She frowns, giving me the once-over again. "Are you losing weight?"  
  
I pull my comforter off my bed and clutch it to my chest, opening my mouth in shock.  
  
"A little late to be modest now, Scooby Doo."   
  
So she did see them. I glance down at my boxers, then drop the comforter in my lap.   
  
"Seriously, are you eating? Doesn't Alfred airdrop CARE packages from the batplane or whatever?"  
  
I laugh. "He's kind of busy. And yes, I eat, Mom. I also wash behind my ears and brush my teeth."  
  
"Well, eat more. You're wasting away to almost nothing." She grins as I flex, making a muscle.  
  
"Does this look like nothing to you?"  
  
She plays along, cocking her head thoughtfully. "I dunno...I remember it being...bigger." She grins wickedly as I gasp, insulted.  
  
"Oh I suppose TED is just the perfect physical specimen."  
  
She gives me that pursed-lip, we-are-trying-not-to-be-amused face. "You just nevermind about Ted. You worry about Dick for a change."  
  
I decide to continue on. Serves her right. "Of course, I only saw his _legs_ not his chest. But I'm sure it ripples." I lean back, putting my arms behind my head and flexing. Yeah yeah, I'm showing off. Serves her right. Let her see what she's missing!  
  
She looks me up and down again, grinning, then starts cracking up. I'm beginning to really get insulted. Then I hear...  
  
"Okay, gorgeous, everything's -- hey, who is that? Is that Dick Grayson?"  
  
I cannot believe it. Ted is over there again. At least this time he's clothed. And I'm not. And I've just thrown my shirt across the room. And this day was going so well.  
  
"Hey, Grayson, you look a little peaked. You feeling alright?" He taps at the screen, his finger ridiculously large in the view window. "Maybe we ought to check the cathodes on this monitor."  
  
I sit up, folding my arms. "I'm fine, Tad."  
  
"Its Ted. Well, good."   
  
He glances at Barbara, and I can't see his facial expression, but she gives him a smile. A secret smile. An 'I'll talk to you later when we're alone' kind of smile. Grr.  
  
"I'll just head on back to my uh...work, here..." He shrinks as he goes off-camera and Babs gives me a weak little 'we'll laugh about this when we're old and gray' kind of smile. I'm suddenly not in the mood.  
  
"You do that, Tad." I give Babs what I hope is a casual, you're-not-bothering-me-so-there look as a faint, tinny, "Its Ted" echoes out of the speakers.  
  
"So what did you have for me on that address I gave you last night?"  
  
Babs suddenly seems like she's in a hurry to sign off. "I emailed it to you. I really need to get some sleep. I hope you're feeling better. Eat something, okay?"  
  
I force a smile. Dick Grayson can act with the best of them.   
  
"Sure, thanks. And I feel _fine_."  
  
Well, I did. Babs gives me a little 'toodle-oo' gesture with her fingers and the screen goes dark just as Tim steps out of the bathroom. Wearing my shirt.  
  
"So that's where my wardrobe goes." I get up and head for the bathroom myself, suddenly not in the mood for company.  
  
"Hey, I was called in on kind of short notice. Speaking of which I need to head back to base and collect my stuff, then I should check in with Dad. He thinks I was spending the night at a friend's house."  
  
I sigh and nod absently, running a hand through my hair and still thinking about Barbara. "Okay. I'm a lot better today, really. I don't think I'll need you tonight. Go have some fun."  
  
Tim shakes his head. "Alright. Just give a holler if you need me."  
  
I nod and head into the shower as Tim packs up and leaves. I'm still thinking about Babs when I realize the Teen Wonder has used up all my shampoo and scream in frustration.  
  
"I had half a bottle left! You have an inch of hair! How the hell do you use up half a bottle!?"  
  
The answer awaits me when I step out of the shower. The bathroom mirror has resteamed up, revealing where a certain snotnose little vigilante had previously written 'Gotcha' in flowing script. And my towels are both wet, too.  
  
I am so gonna kill that kid.  
  
I have one more cup of syrupy-sweet coffee before heading out to run various errands, like drop off my dry cleaning and grocery shop. They say you should never shop for groceries when you're hungry. If that's the case, I am the Grocery Shopper Poster Boy today. I'm still dizzy, off and on, but I think its from not eating. I pick up a cup of chicken noodle soup (a million Jewish grandmothers can't be wrong!) and manage to choke it down before I head back home, groceries in tow. I only get half as many stares from the eyebrow, so I figure today's about even.   
  
I finally settle in and read Babs' report. Hrm. Seems the garage is owned by a company that's owned by a company that owned by a holding company that, through routes so circuitous I think the Byzantines would be intimidated, just happens to be owned by one Roland Desmond. Blockbuster. Oh yeah, its gonna be one of those days.   
  
Babs goes on to report that word on the street is that Blockie, being the civic-minded gentleman that he is, is trying to play the local street gangs off each other by forcing them to pay tribute to him in a way that won't arouse as much attention as say, gun battles in the streets over drugs. How exactly he's forcing them is being kept pretty quiet, but if Blockie wants to hide something, chances are Nightwing wants to know all about it.  
  
I pop a few more aspirin, suit up and head out. Its a nice night, if a bit chilly. The soup seems to have helped some. I give the city a quick once-over in the twilight before full dark, and come about nine I'm camped out on my steeple, binoculars in hand. There seems to be considerably more commotion tonight. Lots more coming and going, though no cars leaving. I can't see jack from here; I need to get closer. They've posted guards on the roof tonight, maybe someone big is coming in to inspect the merchandise. Or maybe they're getting ready to move it. I focus in on the guard, watching him until I think I've got his pattern down, then launch a jumpline and swing into battle.   
  
The gangbanger doesn't know what hit him. I smile inwardly as he goes down like a ton of bricks thanks to my rather perfect roundhouse kick to the back of the head. I secure him and move to the skylight, peering in much like Tim did the night before. I decide to risk removing the pane of glass so I can hear, too. What I hear is enlightening.  
  
Seems that these guys are worried. Well, more like cowering in mortal terror. Seems the Reds are behind on their quota, and all too painfully aware that the Blues are doing well, which, according to the guy in charge of the Reds down there, means "they're gonna get the Boss' help and dump our sorry asses into the harbor."  
  
So that's it. Blockbuster offers help to the gang that brings him the most tribute (in the form of Suburban Assault Vehicles). The gangs are so busy scrambling to steal cars that they neglect their other sources of income and Blockie divides and conquers, helping the winning team take out the losers and weakening the remaining gang's hold on what they have left to the point where they have to rely on him. Nice.  
  
So now that I know the who and the what, I need to find out the where. I watch as they load the last of the SUVs into an eighteen-wheeler and prepare to abandon the garage, trying to figure out a way in that won't get me shot full of holes by the semi-automatics those guys are carrying. I finally decide that I'll wait for the truck to pull out and hitch a ride on the roof of the trailer.   
  
About thirty minutes later, we end up not a mile from my factory hideout in what looks to be a very busy, very heavily guarded warehouse. Flickering lights from blowtorches and the sound of clanging metal tell me that this is indeed the place the cars are being tallied, dismantled, and shipped out. I slip down off the truck as it waits in line with the others for entry and make for the heights, keeping to the shadows.  
  
This place is a fortress. There's so many guards its all I can do to keep hidden. Blockie's playing for keeps; he really wants control of the streets. I need to do some recon before I tackle this place.   
  
I shoot out another jumpline, aiming for the smokestack, and take flight just as a guard rounds the corner and makes me. Two things happen: my body, which has been suspiciously pain-free for most of the day, decides to let me know it doesn't like what's happening, and one of the guards gets off what may be the luckiest shot of his life.  
  
The bullet manages to _slice through the D-Cel_ about three feet above my hands, and I'm falling five stories straight down. Its like that dream-hallucination with the Scarecrow, only real. I do the same thing I did then: look for options. There's a dumpster right next to the plant, filled with boxes. If I can just twist...   
  
Somersault, somersault, half-twisting layout to get my front side up as I careen off the side of the building and -- AH, GOD!  
  
I open my eyes, maybe ten seconds later, maybe ten minutes, I don't know. The important thing right now is that I am not street pizza. I am in the dumpster, the (now-flattened) cardboard boxes have broken my fall (and my back, from the feel of it, or at least a rib or three) and my head is roaring. Absolutely roaring. I thought the headache was bad before. Its like having seashells glued to your ears. Ears...hearing... there's so much commotion. Gunmen. There's gunmen after me. I gotta get the hell out of here.  
  
I sit up and immediately wish I hadn't. I turn to the side in time to throw up what little I had for lunch and wait for the world to, if not stop spinning, at least do it on one axis. It stabilizes a little and its gotta be good enough because they're homing in on me, I can hear them calling to each other, trying to figure out where exactly I fell. I try to stand and--  
  
OH MY GOD THAT HURTS. My left leg is definitely broken. Yep. It hurts so much it clears my head for a moment and I manage to roll out of and behind the dumpster, biting my lips so hard trying not to scream from the jarring my leg takes that I actually draw blood. I take a moment to breathe and the world starts spinning again. I need to get out of here. Now. They're about fifteen feet away and starting to circle. These guys know what they're doing and they're going to find me any moment. I take out a capsule and throw it as far as I can towards the far end of the building. Up goes a smoke cloud, off click the safetys, and everyone runs over to stop my getaway as I proceed to get away. Between the dizziness and my leg, I'm reduced to crawling. I keep right next to the building, using it against my shoulder as a guide. I can still make it. The cars in the trucks. If I get one of those I've got manuverability back.  
  
I inch my way a few more feet before the wall gives way beneath my shoulder and I'm huddled in an access doorway. I reach up and try the knob. Locked. I work on picking the lock and it takes an agonizing minute before the door swings open, revealing a scene that seems to my concussed brain to be right out of Dante's Inferno.   
  
The sparks are leaving trails as they fly up from the carcass of what was once an expensive luxury model all-terrain vehicle. Its dark in here and the flickering light makes it hard to see. Score one for the good guys. I close the door behind me and take a moment to rest as my brain plays yet another rerun of As the World Turns.  
  
Once the dizzy spell passes I make my way slowly along the wall again, this time towards the front, where the trucks and cars are still being unloaded. And still under guard. Damn. And here I thought it was hard to get good help these days. I see what I've got in my gauntlet, closing my eyes as the floor tilts crazily yet again. Okay, think Grayson. No pressure, just your life on the line here. What do we have? What are our options...  
  
The flickering light gives me an idea, and I crawl towards what looks like a grease pit. Paydirt. There's a can of axle grease and an oil gun. I hose down the area in front of the grease pit with the oil gun as far away as I can get in a half-circle then roll the can through the oil towards the guys working with the blowtorch and haul ass (crawl ass?).   
  
The can of axle grease continues merrily along until it hits the path of sparks, then the oil on it and the oil its left in its wake catch fire. I shelter near the wall until the fire makes its way to the grease pit, where the sudden *WHOOSH* sets the whole pool of oil burning with thick, black smoke and leaping orange flames.   
  
Everyone scrambles to fight the fire as I inch towards the entrance, keeping against the wall. The people that aren't fighting the fire are rushing to get the cars out of the building as it slowly spreads, and I manage to haul myself up into one of them and, thanking the powers that be that its an automatic, start the car and throw it in reverse.   
  
The utter chaos outside helps me get halfway down the drive before anyone notices I've gone far past the safe stopping point. A few shots are fired but they've got bigger fish to fry. Or keep from frying. I'm getting seriously nauseous from the movement of the car and can't for the life of me remember the way to my hideout. Then there's a chime in my ear.   
  
"Oh thank God Babs." I stop the SUV and put it in park.  
  
"What? What's wrong?"  
  
"I need to get home and I can't remember the way and there's probably guys after me."   
  
I know I'm not making sense, but my head _aches_ and my leg's gone numb and the damn road won't sit still and there's that roaring in my ears like someone's playing a football game somewhere and the ebb and flow of the crowd matches the spinning and...  
  
"Dick! Wake UP!" Babs sounds worried. That's not good.  
  
"I'm sorry. What'd you say?"  
  
"I said which home, and where are you now? I can pull up a map and--"  
  
Something lands on the hood of the car and I shout, throwing my hands up in front of my face. The sudden movement makes me woozy and when my vision clears, Tim's standing outside the driver's side door, looking at me with a concerned expression. I wince at the yelling in my ear.  
  
"Its Tim, its just Tim..."  
  
She calms down as Tim opens the door and motions me to move over. "Even leaving infernos in your wake, you are not an easy man to find."  
  
I just stare at him. "You're not old enough to drive. Are you?"  
  
"You are definitely not driving. Move over." He frowns, brow furrowing as I ease myself over to the passenger side, leaning against the door for support and closing my eyes.  
  
"What happened to you? Are you shot?" He puts the car in drive and takes off down the road as I try to put my seatbelt on. Its proving insanely difficult.  
  
"No, not shot. The jumpline was shot. I fell. I think my leg's broke." I motion down to my left leg, which I thankfully can no longer feel. Sometimes shock is a good thing.  
  
Oracle's voice echoes in my ear. "Your leg's broke? Tim? You there?"  
  
Tim winces and adjusts the earpiece in his own ear, glancing at me. "I'm here. I'm already taking him to Leslie's. I've got it covered."  
  
He turns his gaze on me as Babs says she'll make sure they're ready for me and signs off. The car's stop and go movement is really making me sick. Tim finally turns onto the highway towards Gotham and now its the lights strobing by, impossibly fast it feels like, that make me wanna ralph.  
  
"How'd you...oh. The homing device."  
  
Tim smiles. "I talked to Alfred when I got back and told him about how you'd been the past few days, and he practically shooed me out of the house and told me to hunt you down. I think he had a feeling you might need some backup. I'm really glad I was able to find you. You know you creamed a stop sign and took out someone's mailbox back there?"  
  
No, I didn't know, and quite frankly I didn't really care. I just wanted to lie down and moan for awhile. And I wanted the car to stop moving. Did I mention I didn't like the moving thing?  
  
I must've blacked out because I come to to Tim shaking my shoulder and smiling in that worried but reassuring way he has. We're behind Leslie's clinic and she comes out pushing a wheelchair. I'd kiss her but I'm too busy throwing up. Only I got rid of the last of the soup back at the warehouse cum garage and now its just dry heaves. I hate dry heaves.  
  
She actually wheels me in and orders all kinds of X-rays and this and that and--  
  
"Whoa. You are _not_ cutting off my boot." She stands there with the safety scissors and looks at me confusedly. "D- Nightwing, honey, its the only way we're going to get it off short of cutting off your leg."  
  
I look down. The leg's badly swollen. She's right. I motion to Tim as he walks in the door and point to my boot. He begins to empty out all the compartments. Its amazing the stuff you can fit in a hollow boot. I feel like I'm ten years old again and my pockets are like clown cars. You can fit so much in your pockets when you're ten... Except parents. Parents don't fit in pockets. No matter how hard you try...  
  
"Nightwing!" Leslie's voice is sharp and direct and I blink. I gotta stop doing that. Zoning out, not blinking. Blinking's okay.  
  
She shines lights in my eyes (bad), asks me what day it is (Saturday? Sunday? Turns out its early Sunday) and who the guy standing next to her is (the Twerp. Ho ho ho. Even with a concussion I still got it). She doesn't have an MRI, which is great because I hate that thing, its loud and you can't move or they have to start over. Not that I'm big on moving right now.   
  
She does, unfortunately, have a CTscan.  
  
I drift in and out as we do the scan and a very cute little assistant named Beth shows me pictures of the inside of my leg. Yep, its broken. Luckily I had my boot on or, as Leslie so comfortingly put it, "my leg would've snapped clean off." She must get her bedside manner from Bruce.  
  
Beth sets my leg in plaster as I smile at her and attempt to make conversation. I must not be doing a very good job at it as she tells me to lie still. I'm trying to lie still but the room just isn't cooperating. I feel like I'm riding the Tilt-a-Whirl in slow motion.  
  
Leslie tells me I've had a severe concussion. What else is new. She holds up some fingers and I give her some numbers, and I swear she says, "Well, at least his ears aren't bleeding." But I could've been hearing things.  
  
What feels like hours later I'm told I can finally sleep. Tim's been keeping me up with these absolutely horrible stories about his roommate. I think I'd have tossed the guy out the window. I yawn fit to crack my jaw and ask that he turn off the light on his way out. He says if I'm a good boy and take all my medicine he'll take me to Babs' to recuperate.  
  
And me without a thing to wear. I smile as I careen into sleep. 


	4. One Of Those Days Chapter 4

One Of Those Days, Part IV  
by Vandalia  
  
----------------------------  
STANDARD DISCLAIMER: These are not my characters. These are just my words. DC owns 'em, I just lie to their parents and tell them they're sleeping over at a friend's house so they can go out and have fun more than once a month.  
  
Reviews, kudos, rotten tomatoes welcome.   
----------------------------  
  
I'm falling. Its totally black, so black I can't even see the useless jumpline in my hand. The rush of wind so loud I can't even hear myself screaming. I'm falling and there's nothing to grab onto. The jumpline's snapped... no, the rigging. Something's wrong with the rigging. I tried to warn them, I really did. At least this time I'm going with them. I'm sorry. I tried. I'm sorry...   
  
"Nightwing! Wake UP!"  
  
I open my eyes and immediately close them as Tim's masked face tilts crazily. I think I'm going to throw up. I don't know if its from the dream or the head injury.  
  
"You're forgiven already, sheesh. I was just stuck to the couch." Tim's voice is teasing, trying to calm me down. I'm shaking like a leaf. I haven't had a dream like that since I first got to Bludhaven. And the damn room is _still_ spinning. I decide to risk opening my eyes again.  
  
Tim's face is smiling and his eyes are worried. Kid's got to learn how to hide his facial expressions better; even with the mask he's broadcasting concern like a ten-thousand watt radio station.   
  
I take in my surroundings. Hospital, or clinic. Definitely not the cave or my lair. Leslie's? How the heck did I get up here? I look at Tim, then my eyes widen as a sudden, horrible thought crosses my mind.  
  
"Don't worry. You just kept saying 'I'm sorry,' nothing incriminating." He grins at me. "Babs is here with her tank. We'll get you over to her house. You'll be fine."  
  
I debate asking why exactly I'm here, much less going to Babs', but decide not to look a gift horse in the mouth. I know I've been hurt. From the dream I'm guessing I did a half-gainer off some building or other. Why was I in Gotham, though? My head hurts so much.  
  
Tim helps me sit up. There's a wheelchair waiting for me. Tim says its all mine until I no longer need it.  
  
"What do I need a wheelchair for?"  
  
Tim gives me one of those uncertain looks, as if he thinks I've made a joke but isn't sure enough to laugh at it. "Because Doc Leslie said to stay off your leg."  
  
I look down, alarmed. Oh crap. My leg's broke! As soon as this little realization hits me, so does the pain. Dammit.  
  
At least the pain in my leg makes me not focus so much on the spinning of the room. Leslie walks in and she gives me her 'I mean business' look. That used to cow me when I was ten. I'm almost twenty-three now, and... it still cows me. I hate it when Leslie's mad at me. You don't get a sucker if you make her mad.  
  
I try to give her a winning smile, but I'm fresh out. She'll have to settle for weak. Maybe I'll get a sympathy sucker.  
  
"Hi Leslie..."  
  
"Don't you 'Hi Leslie' me, young man! I want you to listen up. There is to be NO WALKING on that leg for TWO WEEKS. I mean it. You walk on that leg, you shatter that leg, and I put twelve pins in it. You got me?" She folds her arms and glares as if daring me to say anything.  
  
I nod once, carefully. The world bobs like a cork on the ocean. Maybe I don't want that sucker after all.  
  
"I'm telling this young man here and the woman coming to get you the same thing, so don't try to pull a fast one." She holds up a paper bag with a little 'Rx' symbol on it. "You've broken your tibia and you have a severe concussion. There are three bottles in here. One is for the pain. Take the pill only if you really need it, and no more than three a day. There's also something for the nausea. I want you to drink plenty of liquids and stay put. If anything changes, call me immediately. You're a very lucky young man."  
  
Leslie moves towards me as Babs wheels herself into the room. Her red hair is limp and she's got circles under her eyes, and for some reason she looks mad as hell.  
  
She's absolutely breathtaking.  
  
Or maybe that's just Leslie pulling the IV out of my arm. I've never been very fond of needles. She sticks a cotton swab where the needle was and bends my hand up to my shoulder. "Keep that there while we get you into your chair."  
  
I just nod and stare at Babs. She just snorts and looks my chair over as Tim fiddles with the footrest. Compared to hers its a Model T. Its even got handles. She wrinkles her nose. I love it when she wrinkles her nose.  
  
Tim finishes whatever it is he's doing and then both he and Leslie help me up. Oog. More spinning. I swear I will never go on another carnival ride again. They settle me in and as Leslie places my cast-encased leg on the elevated footrest. I realize that's what Tim was doing. This is for some reason incredibly fascinating and I stare at the magic adjustable footrest until Tim starts pushing me towards the exit.  
  
Oh man we are going fast. Well, it feels like we're going fast. My brain and my stomach have decided to tag team me. I have never wanted to lie down more in my life.  
  
The ride home is uneventful. Tim fills Babs in on what exactly happened, and I just recline in the back and listen. Its news to me. Hey, I set a warehouse on fire, ran over a stopsign, and 'totally creamed' somebody's mailbox! And Tim drove a stolen SUV up to Gotham!  
  
Babs snorts. "What do you do when you're really trying to fight crime? Blow up Gotham Towers? What'd you do with the car, Tim?"  
  
Tim's silent a moment, then says sheepishly, "Uh, I left it in the alley behind the clinic. But I remembered the keys!"  
  
Babs shakes her head. "I'd suggest that as soon as you're done helping me get Nightwing here upstairs you drop it off over at the nearest police station."  
  
We pull into the garage and soon enough I'm being settled onto the couch. Tim says he needs to take off.  
  
"If you don't need anything else, after I drop off the car I'm going to check in with Dad. He's going to have a hissy fit."  
  
He grins and throws me a wink. I jerk my head towards the door and glare at him. Babs just shakes her head and escorts him to the door while I try to figure out how to open my medicine bottle. I can pick a lock in under a minute with a severe concussion, but am utterly defeated by a childproof cap. I'm gnawing on it in frustration when Babs comes back.  
  
"Oh now this is a picture for the scrapbook. I can see the caption now: 'Post-Teen Wonder reverts to cave-man behavior after head wound.'" She takes the bottle and twists off the cap effortlessly. Showoff. I down the pills as she looks me over critically.  
  
"Planning on sleeping in those pajamas, 'Nightwing?'"  
  
I look down. Oh yeah. I'm still in uniform. "I guess its safe to take it off now, huh." I give her my best smile as I remove my mask, peeling it away with a flourish.  
  
She takes one look and starts to laugh. Hard. I remember the eyebrow and rub it self-consciously. "Anyone ever tell you you have a rotten bedside manner, Dr. Gordon?"  
  
She grins broadly. "Anyone ever tell you you'd make a cute raccoon, Rocky?"  
  
I just stare at her for a moment. I'm supposed to be the one with the head wound here. Then I notice black on the fingers I just rubbed my eyebrow with and frown, confused. Until...  
  
"Oh that's it. I am going to kill that kid. This means war."  
  
Babs shakes her head, still laughing, as she moves to the bathroom. She comes back with a washcloth and I hold out my hand.  
  
"Here, let me. Kid? You mean Tim? Why would he do that?" She scrubs at the area around my eyes, removing whatever it is Tim's coated my mask with.  
  
I shrug, enjoying her nearness. "Probably because I glued him to the couch after he stole all my masks the other night."  
  
She grins. "That would do it." She gives me one last swipe and sits back, looking over her work. "There. Now let me see if I can't find you something to wear."  
  
She moves into her room, and I call after her to make sure its nothing pink as I sit up. I wait for the room to stop playing 'Ring Around the Raccoon' before I try wrestling my shirt off over my head. Skintight Kevlar-Nomex weave is hard enough to get off when you don't have separated ribs. As soon as I get it over my head I fall back, exhausted, not even bothering to remove it from my arms. And there goes the room again. I refrain from holding onto the couch.   
  
Babs wheels herself over to me, a few articles of clothing in her lap. She just shakes her head and pulls my shirt the rest of the way off, laying it on the coffee table. "I swim in this T-shirt so it should be big enough for you, and the shorts fit Ted."  
  
What the heck was Ted doing wearing her shorts?! She turns around and begins to move away.   
  
"Wait!"  
  
She stops, looking over her shoulder. I point to my boot. She smiles and moves into position, locking the brakes on her wheels before trying to tug it off.  
  
"So... the shorts fit Ted, huh."  
  
She almost yanks my leg off. "Yes."  
  
"Uh huh. You guys go play tennis or something?"  
  
She tries a different angle as I grab hold of the couch, and tugs again. "Nope."  
  
If I didn't know better I'd swear she was enjoying torturing me like this. I glare at her as the boot gives. "So how do you know they fit?"  
  
She slides the boot the rest of the way off, wrinkling her nose at my stockinged foot and backing away. "Maybe you should wash up before you go to bed."  
  
"Don't change the subject." I wiggle my toes at her menacingly. "We haf ways of makink you talk."  
  
She holds up her hands in defeat, laughing as she lets my boot hit the floor with a thump.  
  
"Okay, okay. I was feeling a bit frazzled and Ted stopped over to cheer me up. He'd brought wine and dinner and so I set up the table and we were eating when he spilled wine on his pants. Red wine, tan pants, much staining if its not taken care of right away. So I let him wear those while I tried to salvage his wardrobe."  
  
It takes me a minute to parse this. "So you mean when I saw Ted sans pants in your living room..."  
  
She smiles at me. "It was totally innocent." She leans over and beeps my nose. I scowl.  
  
"You let me think something was going on. For days!"  
  
She laughs. "I couldn't help it. You're so cute when you're jealous." She moves out of the room. "I'll go get the guest room ready while you change."  
  
"I was _not_ jealous!" I look down at my pants. Leslie sliced the left leg open like a filleted fish, so now its hanging loosely. I decide they're a lost cause and just rip them the rest of the way off, tossing them on top of my shirt on the table. Ted might've been pantsless here first, but I'm the first one totally naked, so there! (Well, okay, I'm still wearing the sock).  
  
I shake my head as I pull the shorts on. Why not just pee a circle around her while you're at it, Grayson? She's allowed to have friends. Even male ones. That bring her wine and flowers and dinner. Grr.  
  
Ah, God. Note to self: growling when one has a concussion is a Bad Thing(tm). Or maybe its just the medicine kicking in. I still feel like a supporting cast member of Moby Dick. Just call me Ishmael.  
  
Hey, medicine. I grab the bag to see what's in the third bottle, and grin. Alright Leslie, you remembered.  
  
I shake the grape sucker out of the third medicine bottle and pop it in my mouth, laying back. Babs comes in and smiles. "That thing better have numbers on it, Boy Wonderful."  
  
I take it out of my mouth and hold it up triumphantly. Being a sucker from a doctor's office, the stick actually _does_ have numbers on it. So there.  
  
Babs chuckles and pretends to check it. "Oh my, 140 degree temperature. I think we'd better call Bruce."  
  
I smile at her lazily. The codeine's starting to kick in. "How'm I doing, Doc?"  
  
She motions for me to get in my chair. "I'd say you're half-baked. Come on, let's get you into bed."  
  
After much wailing and gnashing of teeth (and Babs remembering to lock the wheels of my chair before I try to get in it; "Amateurs," she snorts.) I finally make it into the guest room. I am downright loopy and feeling _no_ pain by the time I claw my way onto the bed. The room's still spinning, but I no longer care. Everything is just so...soft.  
  
Now I know why Leslie said take one only if you have to. Babs has such an _interesting_ ceiling. Its kind of textured. You stare at it long enough and it looks like its floating down towards you, layer by layer...  
  
"Dick!"  
  
Whoa. Loud. It takes me about a minute to turn my head and look at Babs. I just stare for a long moment. She's absolutely gorgeous. Green eyes flashing, that fiery red hair...  
  
"Dick, are you listening to me?"  
  
"Uh huh." I watch as she tries not to smile. This causes me to giggle. It hurts a little to giggle, but I don't care. She starts laughing and shakes her head.  
  
"I think I'm going to let you sleep now, alright?"  
  
"Uh huh."  
  
"If you need anything just give a holler alright? I'll be in the other room."  
  
"Uh huh." I grin like an idiot as she props up my cast with a pillow. Why is it girls have so darn many pillows? Do they plan for stuff like this? It occurs to me I have a real live girl here I could ask, but by the time I realize this she's already out in the other room.  
  
I work on my sucker and watch Babs' ceiling until I fall asleep.  



	5. One Of Those Days Chapter 5

One of Those Days, Part V  
by Vandalia  
  
----------------------------  
STANDARD DISCLAIMER: These are not my characters. These are just my words. DC owns 'em, I just lie to their parents and tell them they're sleeping over at a friend's house so they can go out and have fun more than once a month.  
  
Reviews, kudos, rotten tomatoes welcome.   
----------------------------  
  
I awaken I don't know how much later. All I know is that sunlight is streaming through the window, I'm horribly thirsty, and my leg is throbbing in time with my head. And I really, really want another codeine.  
  
That tears it; no more happy pills for _you_, Mr. Grayson. I try calling out for Babs but my throat is too dry and -- gah! The stick from the sucker is stuck in my hair! I pull it out (ow!) and set it on the endtable, where I notice my own personal Florence Nightingale has left me a glass of water. I sit up cautiously. Oh thank you God, the room is still. I down the glass of water in about three seconds, lie back down, and call for Babs.  
  
She comes in, wearing something different and looking marginally well-rested. I figure this means its tomorrow. Or, today. Or, whatever. Oh wait. Today is Monday. I have to work Monday. What the hell am I gonna tell the force? I sit up quickly, my head gives one huge warning throb, and I fall back down on the pillow. Oh that hurt.  
  
"You know, Dr. Leslie told you to take it easy." Babs tucks yet another pillow behind my head, fluffing and arranging until I shoo her away.   
  
"I'm fine. I need a phone. I need to call in sick."  
  
She arches an eyebrow and I look at her apologetically. "Please?"  
  
She brings me the cordless and I sit there stupidly for a minute, trying to remember the precinct number. I'm not sure who I call to call in sick. I haven't had a chance to do it yet. Last time I just sorta snuck out and ended up...here. Half-drowned, sick and deliriously happy. And here I am again. I look at Babs and smile a little.  
  
"Don't remember the number? I'll get it online. Be right back." She pushes her chair out through the door, leaving me to my thoughts.  
  
I shake my head a little to clear it (ow) and think of what excuse to use this time. I have it formulated when Babs comes back with the number. What on earth would I do without Babs. She's like my own personal Alfred, only a lot cuter.  
  
The phone rings four times before a harried desk sargeant answers. "B.P.D. Sgt. Blake."  
  
"Um, hi. This is Grayson." Babs arches an eyebrow at me, folding her arms and smiling. I stick my tongue out at her.  
  
"Grayson? Hey, we got a Grayson on the force here?" I can hear various hoots in the background and someone laugh at something I can't quite make out.  
  
"Sorry fella, you got the wrong number. We used to have a guy named Grayson on the force but he up and went to Vegas to be a showgirl."  
  
"Yeah, well about my high kick. I broke my leg."  
  
The guy stops teasing me long enough to demand what happened, a tenseness in his voice that wasn't there before. I can tell he's thinking a perp did this.  
  
"Relax, I was helping a buddy shingle a roof and sorta slipped."  
  
The sargeant relays this to the gathering crowd by the desk, who question the wisdom of giving me a gun.  
  
"Well looks like I lost the pool. After this I think Calamity wins by a nose. Or is that an eyebrow?" More hooting from the crowd at the desk. Its good to be missed.  
  
"Yeah well, two weeks. I got a note from the doctor and everything. She says if I try to walk on it she'll personally put so many pins in my leg I'll never be able to pass airport security again. So I'm stuck up in Gotham until then."  
  
I can hear a sudden commotion in the background as the Sarge takes the message. "Keep it down, McGuffin! I'm on the phone!" He sounds both disgusted and amused. "Looks like someone stung the practical joker while he was out for the weekend. Buncha towels and some kid's drink stuffed in his locker. You wouldn't happen to know anything about that, would you rookie."  
  
I can't keep the grin off my face. "No sir, Sarge. How'd it smell?"  
  
"Let's just say McGuffin'll be walking his beat today. Solo. You rest up, kid. I'll tell Amy why you're AWOL. If you're lucky she'll only break your other leg."  
  
I laugh and hang up the phone. Sounds like it was shift change. I hand the phone back to Babs.   
  
"Thanks. How long was I out?"  
  
Babs looks thoughtful. "I picked you up around eight yesterday morning, and its almost that now.."  
  
I blink, stunned. "I've been asleep for twenty-four hours?!" Ow, ow. Not so loud, Grayson. Maybe I'll just have half a codeine...  
  
Babs is watching me, concerned. "Give or take a few hours. You alright? Want something to drink or eat?"  
  
Eat? Food... I almost forgot food existed. I don't remember the last time I ate. No wonder I'm so weak. "Yeah."  
  
She smiles, folding her arms. "Yeah what? You hungry yet?"  
  
"I'm starving. French toast, maybe some pancakes, a pound of bacon..."  
  
She tosses her head and laughs. "How about some chicken broth and a few crackers, oh He Whose Eyes Are Bigger Than His Stomach?"  
  
I could eat eyes with a side of haggis right now. I think that's a good sign. I'm so hungry I'm nauseous. "Okay sure, whatever."  
  
She snaps her fingers and heads for the kitchen, coming back with a bottle of purple stuff. "Tell you what, you drink all this while I heat up the broth. Its watered-down sports drink, it'll replenish those electrolytes. You keep this down, you get broth and crackers. You keep _that_ down, we'll see about something a little more substantial. Deal?"  
  
I hold out my hand for the bottle. "Deal. But just to hedge my bets, bring me half a painkiller and one of those seasickness pills. Please?" I even remember to say please this time. I'm such a model patient.  
  
Babs smiles and does as I ask. I sip the juice experimentally (more grape), resting in between swallows. My stomach protests a little but the Dramamine helps, and the reduced dose of codeine keeps me comfortably numb without turning me into The Boy Zombie.  
  
I drink the last of the sportaide with the broth, and make a joke about eating crackers in bed. Its dumb but Babs laughs anyway. The act of eating leaves me weary, but feeling much better. The pain in my head is almost gone and my leg is just an occasional dull throb. I doze off and on while Babs putters about the other room. Just hearing her is relaxing, in a wierd kind of way. Its...comforting, the sound of another person's presence. Lets you know you're not alone.  
  
I decide to drift back into wakefullness and stretch. I'm getting cramped lying around like this. And as I raise my arms over my head I realize I stink. Yuck. I ease my way into a sitting position and I can feel my head throb. This would probably hurt a lot without the pills, but with them it just feels like someone's playing a stereo really loud with lots of base in the next apartment over.  
  
I look from the chair to the bathroom door and debate the pros and cons of trying to do this myself. On the con side Babs'll yell at me if she catches me. On the pro side I don't have to deal with her trying to give me a sponge bath. Don't get me wrong, the idea has... a certain appeal, but not when I reek like this. I decide to take a chance.   
  
Now, how do I go about getting myself in that chair. I inch myself over to the edge of the bed, letting my good leg hang over the side. I put my weight on it and sort of pivot, falling rather inelegrantly into the seat. How does Babs do this every day?  
  
I'm getting a newfound respect for the hassles of her day-to-day life as I make my way to the guest bathroom. Even with the extra-wide doorways manuvering is tricky. I don't want to knock any holes in the drywall with my elevated leg. Babs hears the commotion and sails in gracefully, coming to a stop right in front of me as I awkwardly try to back myself in.  
  
"Just what do you think you're doing?" She sounds annoyed. I hope I didn't interrupt anything important.  
  
"Um...washing up a little? You were right. I smell." I smile, hopefully winningly.  
  
She eyes me, then nods. "Alright. Washcloths are under the sink." She moves over to the bed, remaking it while I clean up. It takes a lot longer than normal, and again I wonder how she does it. Day-to-day things I never even used to give a second thought about have become time-consuming. Its not like I can hop in a shower with a cast on. I guess I'll have sticky hair for another day.  
  
She comes over to check on me while I'm drying off. "Feel better?"  
  
"Tons. Thanks again, for letting me stay here and everything."  
  
She smiles. "Don't be silly. You always manage to find your way here when you're hurt. Its become a tradition. I'd be insulted if you went somewhere else at this point."  
  
I laugh. "Some tradition. Normal people go out to dinner or rent a cabin on a lake for a week. I get bandaged up and fed soup."  
  
She tousles my hair fondly. "You'd hate being normal." She then frowns, touching the sticky part. "Ew."  
  
I roll my eyes. "You know, I've always wanted a woman to say that to me while running her fingers through my hair."  
  
She laughs and heads out. I follow, more slowly. Wheelchairs are a lot trickier than they look. I keep forgetting the wheels move independently of each other and weave down the hall like a drunk.  
  
She takes me into the kitchen and tells me to back up to the sink. I blink. Okay...  
  
She reclines the chair and I realize what she's going to do. You know somebody loves you when they offer to wash your hair after you've fallen into a dumpster.  
  
I relax as the warm water hits my scalp. She runs her fingers through my hair, wetting it, then scrubbing at it, and its probably the most sensual thing she's ever done to me. She leans over me to turn off the water and I slip my arms around her waist. She smiles down at me and wrings out my hair. Its never like this at Supercuts.  
  
I tilt my head up to kiss her, and she smiles, returning it before pulling back with a laugh. "You're getting water all over my kitchen. Sit still, I'll get a towel."  
  
I lean my head against the sink and close my eyes. I think I must've dozed off for a minute, because next thing I know she's touching my stomach gingerly. I suck in, suprised, and sit up, a little too fast. Just that featherlight touch and my pulse is racing. Whoa, down boy.  
  
"What happened there?" She hands me a towel and I mop at my face and neck before vigorously towelling at my head.  
  
Wrong action. My head does not want vigorous anything right now, least of all rubbing. I stop, blinking, and Babs gets that concerned look on her face again.  
  
"Sorry, s'ok." I look down to see what she's talking about and notice the thin pink line that neatly crosses my abdomen. "Oh, that. Mugger with a knife. Real fast bugger."  
  
She smiles. "I'd hate to see the other guy."  
  
I snort, disgusted with myself at the memory. "Don't be. I clocked him one in the jaw and he didn't even blink. Just gave me something to remember him by and vanished." I resume towelling, gently this time.  
  
She seems suprised. "Vanished?"  
  
I shrug, a little embarrassed. "Well, not like in a cloud of brimstone or anything. Just...ducked and next thing I knew he was gone. I did a search immediately but he must've had some hidden bolthole or something. Never did catch him."  
  
I take the towel off my head to find her looking at me, suprised. It cheeses me off. "I told you I've been having a rough couple of days." I point down to my leg for emphasis and make my way back to the guest room.  
  
"Boy somebody's cranky all of a sudden." She follows me and helps me out of the chair and back into bed. She's changed the sheets. I manuever my way under the covers and lie back, sighing. "Sorry. Just tired."  
  
She leans over and strokes my cheek once, gently. "Don't beat yourself up about it. Get some sleep."  
  
I kiss her hand and smile at her then settle back as she heads out of the room. At least I'm clean. I close my eyes.  
  
When I open them, its dark out. I can't believe how much I'm sleeping. My stomach starts growling before I realize I'm smelling food. Real, honest to goodness food. I sit up and... lie back down again, this time with a splitting headache. My stomach feels fine, however, so when Babs wheels in the tray of grilled cheese and tomato soup, I sit up again anyway and wait for the pounding to subside somewhat before I dig in.  
  
Have I mentioned Babs is a killer cook? Yeah yeah, grilled cheese isn't exactly lobster Neuberg, but she makes it special with tomato and bacon slices. Who needs lobster?  
  
She smiles and watches me eat. I ask her about her day. She tells me she's looking into the warehouse for me between answering various calls for assistance, mostly research during the day. Its the nighttimes that get hairy. Though if she gets an emergency call during the day she knows it's bad. Gotta be a pretty powerful bad guy to try pulling something in broad daylight.  
  
I nod and listen, sucking down soup like its going out of style. I refrain from licking the bowl; Alfred did teach me _some_ manners. But damn I'm hungry.  
  
"I see you've got your appetite back," Babs teases as I ask her for a fourth sandwich. I smile. She winks and says she has something better, coming back with another half a pain pill and... fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies.  
  
Have I mentioned how much I love this woman?  
  
And they're still hot from the oven. I lean over and give her a chocolately kiss on the cheek between bites. "Marry me."  
  
She laughs, blushing a little as she rubs the chocolate off her cheek. "You just want me for my cookies."  
  
I just keep eating and nod, waggling my eyebrows (well, eyebrow) at her suggestively. She laughs and hits me on the arm. I get cut off after only my third.  
  
"Oh c'mon, I'm injured here. I need my strength."  
  
"No. You're going to make yourself sick."  
  
"I already am sick." I fake a cough for emphasis. Ow. Don't fake a cough when you have a concussion, either. I put a hand to my head.  
  
"See, what'd I tell you." She leans over to take the plate and I grab her wrist.  
  
"You know, they say chocolate is an aphrodisiac..." I kiss her hand as she laughs.  
  
Then a voice comes from the doorway. The Voice. "They say you're hurt, too."  
  
Babs blushes about two shades redder than her hair and mumbles something about knocking. I sit up straight before I even fully comprehend what's going on.  
  
I hate that he can do that to me.  
  
"Glad to see you're feeling better." He walks into the room, managing to keep to the shadows. Not even tons of yellow throw pillows can defeat the Dark Knight when he's feeling spooky.  
  
Babs excuses herself, making for the door. I think she runs over his foot on the way; he shows no sign of it. I run a hand through my hair, knowing its a mess from sleeping on it wet. The damn cowlick is in full force and I feel like I'm nine years old again and in trouble for something.  
  
He comes closer once Babs has gone, giving me the once-over and pausing when he gets to my face.  
  
"Is that some kind of fashion statement?"  
  
I touch my eyebrow and sigh. "Yeah Bruce, its all the rage down in the 'Haven. Soon everyone will be doing it."  
  
He arches an eyebrow. Sarcasm is wasted on the Batman.  
  
"Status?"  
  
"Simple fracture of the left tibia, severe concussion, slight dehydration, various bumps and bruises. One missing eyebrow." Status? I sigh again, irritated, then catch my breath, holding my side. "And a few separated ribs."  
  
I don't know what's worse, the way he asks or the way I immediately answer.  
  
"What happened to your stomach?"  
  
I look down. He would ask about that. "I got cut. Nothing serious."  
  
"Its older than your other injuries." Its a statement, not a question. Always the detective.  
  
I roll my eyes. "You caught me, Bruce. I confess. I'm smuggling heroin into Gotham in my abdominal cavity."  
  
He doesn't bat an eye. "Looks more like a shallow cut. Knife or scalpel."  
  
He just keeps picking at me! "Okay, yes! I got cut! I was a little off my game and the guy landed a lucky scratch, that's all! I'm sorry! I was careless! I let my guard down for a second! I screwed up! Are you happy now?"  
  
I wince as my tirade expands my lungs and hold my side until the pain subsides. He just watches. I look down, glaring at the empty cookie plate. Why does he always need to make me feel so inadequate?  
  
"Leslie said to stay off it for two weeks."  
  
I don't even look up. "I know."  
  
"Are you going to follow her advice?"  
  
I glance up at him challengingly. "Would you?"  
  
That gets the barest hint of a smile out of him. "No. But you've got more sense than I do." He glances back towards the door. "And a much prettier nursemaid."  
  
I bite back a smile. I'm still mad at him. "I'll catch the guy as soon as I'm up and around again. In the meantime I'll get Babs to show me some of her computer stuff. I won't just be lying around."  
  
He sighs. "That's not..." He folds his arms, letting his cape fall closed around him. Might as well be steel walls.  
  
"You should get some sleep. Have you brushed your teeth yet?"  
  
Have I _what_? What am I, twelve? "No, not yet."  
  
"You should brush your teeth before you go to bed. Especially after eating sweets."  
  
I just stare at him. "Did you just buy Colgate or something?"  
  
He shakes his head, moving to the side of the bed as if he's made a decision. "Its Colgate-Palmolive. And no, they're doing quite well. Let me help you." He reaches over as if to lift me out of the bed.  
  
"Bruce, stop it. I can take care of myself. I'm not a kid anymore."  
  
Something flickers across his face, too fast for me to make it out, then its gone. He straightens.   
  
"No. No, you're not."   
  
Maybe this is why I think Tim's too easy to read. Ben Stien is like Richard Simmons compared to the Batman.  
  
He moves towards the door. I mutter, "I don't even have a toothbrush here anyway."  
  
He pauses, as if unsure. No, not unsure. Batman is never unsure. He's thinking. Then he moves back towards me, taking something out of his utility belt.  
  
Its a toothbrush. Its even got a little Bat-symbol on it. I can't help but smile. "Thanks."  
  
He just nods, a ghost of an answering smile flitting across his face. "Get some rest, son."  
  
I nod back and he's gone. Poof. I know how he does it. I can even do it myself. Its still impressive.  
  
I manage to make it to the bathroom and brush my teeth. I even floss, just in case he's watching. Babs comes in and gives me a kiss goodnight.  
  
"He's just worried about you, you know." She makes a point of tucking me in.  
  
"Yeah." I don't sound convincing, just thoughtful.  
  
"Good night, Dick."  
  
"Good night, Babs."  
  
She hits the lights on the way out. I put my hands behind my head, and smile.  
  
"Good night, Bruce."  
  
There's the briefest of movements in the shadows outside the window, but its enough. I smile as I drift off to sleep. 


	6. One Of Those Days Chapter 6

----------------------------  
STANDARD DISCLAIMER: These are not my characters. These are just my words. DC owns 'em, I just lie to their parents and tell them they're sleeping over at a friend's house so they can go out and have fun more than once a month.  
  
Summary: Dick's recovery takes a turn for the worse.  
  
Special thanks to GenX for putting up with my endless rewrites and to my SO for the Babs inscription.  
  
Reviews, kudos, rotten tomatoes welcome.   
----------------------------  
  
One Of Those Days, Part VI  
  
I just watch, fuming, as the little Japanese schoolgirl rips the head off my big sumo warrior, then giggles and bows at me before slam-dunking it into the basket at the far end of the court. Tinny electronic victory music blares from the computer's speakers.  
  
"Who is this one m-p-u one s-e person and how are they beating my guy with that little girl?!"  
  
Babs looks over my shoulder and laughs.   
  
"That's 1mpu1se, you know. Impulse? The quick little kid, one of the Flash's family or something?"   
  
She moves back to her work table and resumes soldering some computer part or another.   
  
"You're never going to beat him. Even _I_ can't beat him. The kid eats, breathes and sleeps video games."  
  
That's what she thinks. I pick an even bigger, meaner guy this time -- the undead Samurai warrior with the flaming skull. I barely type in his name before the little schoolgirl has sicced her yellow electric cat-thing on my guy, leaving him a smoking crater. She says, 'thank you for the distraction' in Japanese as she executes a backflip. I think her little yellow pet is actually flipping me off. Now he's using stuffed animals to beat me? This is embarrassing.  
  
"How can they get away with making video games this violent! Sheesh, the guy ripped my head off last time. It was even dripping."   
  
I toss the controller on the table, frustrated. Babs peers over again.  
  
"Oh, that move. That's Chico-san, you have to be quick on the 'A' button to pull off the decapitation. The guy you're playing can do it too."  
  
"Really? How? Show me."  
  
Babs takes the controls and actually manages to stuff Chico-san's little yellow pet down her throat before the girl whips out a flaming sword and -- ew.  
  
"Boy, these graphics are getting really...real. How do I rip her head off again?"  
  
Babs laughs.   
  
"You're supposed to be learning how to manipulate the satellite, not the secret moves of _Kung-Fu Ninja Death Master III_."  
  
"I know, I know. I just got -- distracted."   
  
Hmph. Until we meet again, Chico-san. I pull up the schematic in all its mind-numbing glory. Babs just shakes her head, chuckling.   
  
"You said that on Tuesday when I caught you trying to lift weights. You said that Wednesday when I caught you watching game shows instead of reading that Linux book. You also said that yesterday when--"  
  
"Hey, yesterday you took my chair because you said my popping wheelies was making you nervous. What else was I supposed to do?"  
  
She grabs the armrests of her chair, her way of putting her hands on her hips, and mock-glares at me.   
  
"_Not_ try walking on your hands, for starters!"  
  
I purse my lips.   
  
"Well, Leslie said I couldn't put any weight on my leg..."  
  
"And I said you couldn't polish off the rest of the cookies before dinner, not 'you can have them all if you manage to sneak past me even without your chair.' You've almost eaten me out of house and home as it is. That reminds me; I'm going to need to order more food."   
  
She pulls me out from behind her computer screen and brings up a web browser. I watch her, curiously.   
  
"With the computer?"  
  
She grins. Oh how the librarian loves to lecture.   
  
"Yes, with the computer. They deliver right to your door nowadays, as opposed to having to hunt and gather, Captain Caveman."  
  
This takes precedence over learning how to work a satellite any day.  
  
"The computer brings food? Show me!"  
  
She laughs and goes about pointing and clicking. I watch, and she makes it look easy, though she shoots down almost all my suggestions.   
  
"You don't need five flavors of ice cream, Boy 'Wonder-Where-He-Puts-It-All'. Is that broken leg hollow, too?"  
  
"But I haven't had Rocky Road in forever! Or Mint Chocolate Chip, or Butter Pecan, or Pralines and Cream... and I've never even heard of Banana Republic!"  
  
She just gives me that over-the-top-of-her-glasses look as she tilts her head down. I hold up one finger, pleadingly. She laughs.   
  
"Okay, ONE. You can pick ONE."  
  
She even lets me man the browser as she goes back to soldering. I pick one flavor of ice cream... and one flavor of cookies... and ooh, tortilla chips are on sale... and you can't have tortilla chips without salsa, which gets me hungry for tacos....  
  
"Five-hundred forty-nine dollars?!"   
  
Babs is staring at the screen in disbelief. I point proudly.   
  
"And that's after coupons! Did you know they had coupons?"  
  
She hauls me out from behind the computer again and starts taking stuff off the list, shaking her head in disgust.   
  
"Remind me to install the cyber-babysitter software before you come over next time."  
  
"Oh, ha ha."   
  
I wheel my way towards the bathroom, sighing. I've been here since what, Sunday? And I'm going insane with boredom. It's not that being with Babs isn't great, it is, but she has other stuff to do and I... don't. I'm no good with computers. I can't even beat a thirteen-year-old with a Japanese school girl. And Babs won't let me lift weights, much. And I can't go out yet. At least Alfred brought over some of my clothes.   
  
I look down at the worn jeans. I've lost so much weight in the past week that my clothes from high school fit me again. (For some reason, Babs got really mad when I told her that). Luckily, it means I don't have to rip the leg off my new jeans. I pick at the edge of my cast idly, reading over the inscriptions.   
  
Alfred signed it, 'Master Dick -- I do hope this will be a reminder to keep your feet on the ground.' Tim wrote, 'Don't Tread On Me' on the bottom. He said they were studying the Revolutionary War in school, and it 'just fit.' Babs' says 'Next time you need a break, hit Cntl-C!' She refuses to explain it to me; she says if I read that book she gave me I'll get the joke. And of course Bruce: 'I know I told you you'd have to beat them off with a stick; I just didn't think they'd try so hard! -- B.W.' There's also a tiny little stylized bat on the heel, where it'll soon be worn off when I can put weight on this leg again.   
  
I shake my head. Enough procrastinating, Grayson. You can still work your upper body, so long as Babs isn't hovering. I'm up to fifty situps a day; hopefully I'll be able to do a hundred by the time I can walk again.   
  
I make my way quietly to her workout area and pick up one of the dumbbells, locking my wheels into place (I learned that lesson the first time I tried to do curls). I manage to get in about fifteen reps before Babs catches me.  
  
"Richard John Grayson, I swear by all that's holy..."  
  
I put the weight down. Quickly.   
  
"I was just--"  
  
"You were just going back to learning how the satellite worked while I start dinner."  
  
I nod.   
  
"Um, exactly."  
  
I make my way back to the computer, head down, and pull up the schematic again. After about fifteen minutes of looking at it my head starts to hurt. I'm almost convinced it's psychosomatic, but Babs has been reading up on concussions and claims that this can be one of the side-effects. Yay, side-effects. I pull up Babs' Fun and Games folder and start looking around.  
  
"Dinner will be ready in about ten minutes."  
  
The smell of spicy meat wafts from the kitchen and I smile. Tacos. Oh how I love that gal of mine. I pull up some kind of voice program and grab the microphone. It takes me a few minutes to figure out how it works, but soon I'm singing Blue Suede Shoes like Alvin and the Chipmunks, and fiddling with the base until I've got the perfect Arnold Schwartzenegger. I make up pet names for Babs in pidgin German until she begs me to stop.  
  
"Ahs you wish, mah leetle liebkuchen."  
  
I switch the settings again and say 'hello' in a sultry woman's voice.  
  
Babs actually sticks her head out of the kitchen to gape at me.   
  
"You sounded just like the Huntress."  
  
I try it again, and sure enough, she's right. Hrm...  
  
I pull up Babs' com system, and put a call out.  
  
"This is Robin."  
  
His voice is hushed, and it sounds like he might be in his room at home or something. Makes sense; its only about six. I position the microphone.  
  
"Hey, is this Tim? I need your help."  
  
Helena's voice echoes out of the speakers and Babs pokes her head around the corner to glare at me, mouth open. I grin and hold my finger to my lips as Tim stammers.  
  
"I-I-uh...how..no! Who is this?"  
  
"Who does it sound like, you silly boy. It's Helena."  
  
"Helena? You know...?"  
  
"Of course I know. But that's not why I'm calling. It's about Stephanie. See, I've been training her, sort of taking her under my wing..."  
  
"Stephanie? How do you--"  
  
"Don't interrupt. It's rude."  
  
I do my best schoolmarm when I've been hanging around Babs.  
  
"Now listen. I've been training her, and she's just gone off the deep end. She came to me telling me that this boy Tim, who's really Robin--"  
  
"_STEPH_ knows _TOO?!_"  
  
He sounds like he's about ready to have a heart attack. It's all I can do to keep from laughing. Babs folds her arms, trying very hard to look disapproving, her lip curling as she fights a smile. I wave her over violently as I speak.  
  
"Well of course she knows, who do you think told me? Anyway, she's apparently really mad that you've been seeing other women behind her back--"  
  
His tone goes from shock to indignant.  
  
"I have not! We aren't even dating! We--"  
  
"That's not what she said. Anyway, she's really mad. I managed to keep her from taking out an ad in the paper--"  
  
"The paper?! About what?"   
  
Oh, I've got him now.  
  
"Well, revealing your secret identity. But like I said, she's really mad..."  
  
I point at Babs at this point, and she picks up the other microphone, smirking at me.  
  
"Am I going to have to separate you two?"  
  
I 'aw' and roll my eyes, laughing. She was supposed to pretend to be Stephanie. Tim sounds confused.  
  
"Separate...? Oracle?"  
  
I flip the voice modulator off, still laughing.  
  
"Dick! I am going to KILL you! That was so not funny!"  
  
Even Babs is laughing at this point.  
  
"Sorry, CBW. I can't leave him alone for a minute..."  
  
Tim's hissing threats into his communicator.  
  
"I don't care if your leg _is_ broken--"  
  
I cut him off, laughing.  
  
"--you still don't mess with the master."   
  
He begins to say something else then his voice gets really far away. Sounds like his Dad's come into the room. Babs gives me a pursed-lip look of disapproval, but her eyes are dancing. I wink at her.  
  
"I gotta go eat. I'll see you around, Dick."  
  
Tim manages to make it sound like a threat. He's getting better at the intimidation thing. Babs taps me on the shoulder as he signs off.  
  
"Speaking of dinner, it's probably ready by now."  
  
I follow Babs into the kitchen and after a wonderful meal we head into the living room to relax. Babs is still fiddling with the part she was working on earlier, I'm pretending to read her coffee table book. What Tim said is bugging me for some reason.  
  
What did he mean by 'I'll see you around?' He's planning something, but what? I want to stay one step ahead of him...  
  
I'm interrupted in my thoughts by a low murmur of voices; when did Babs turn the radio on? I need to think. This is important. I get up and slide into my chair, wheeling myself into the bedroom. Babs glances up distractedly, gives me a smile, then goes back to her work.  
  
I can still hear the radio, so I close the bedroom door. There was a hint there somewhere. See you around, see you around... Marbles on the floor? Nah, I can't walk yet. Something I'm allergic to, make me swell up? That'd be kind of cruel...  
  
And I can still hear the darn radio. It's really annoying. I open the door and ask Babs to turn it down.  
  
"Turn what down?"  
  
She sounds puzzled, and I sigh.   
  
"The radio."  
  
"The radio's not on, Dick."  
  
"Alright, the T.V. then."  
  
Now I'm really getting annoyed.  
  
"That's not on either."  
  
"Whatever it is you _do_ have on would you turn it down or off? Please?"  
  
I slam the door shut, harder than I'd meant to, and it only adds to my suddenly bad mood. I begin to dig out some stationary to make a list of possible Robin revenge plans when Babs knocks on the door.  
  
"Dick? Are you feeling okay?"  
  
"Yeah, I'm fine. Or I would be if you turned that down."  
  
Babs just gives me a strange look.   
  
"Turn what down? Nothing's _on_, Dick. Maybe your fillings are picking up radio stations or something."  
  
She offers me a reassuring smile. I just stare at her evenly.  
  
"Don't patronize me. And-- oh, I get it. You're helping him, now."  
  
I smile. So that's the plan. She looks at me blankly. A little fear, uncertainty -- she's good. Better actress than I give her credit for.  
  
"Helping who, Dick?"  
  
"Oh, gee, I don't know... Robin maybe?"  
  
I look around the room.   
  
"I know you're here, you might as well come out. And turn off that dang radio while you're at it. You're driving me nuts."  
  
Babs looks at me as if I've already arrived at nuts and am heading straight for Looneyville.  
  
"Dick, seriously, I can't hear anything."  
  
I run my hands through my hair, checking for wires or hidden microphones. I even go so far as to go in the bathroom and run a Q-Tip in my ear. Babs watches me, her face pinched, lips set into a thin line. Bravo. Jodi Foster has nothing on her.  
  
"This is pretty good, Tim. I dunno how you're doing it, but I salute you. You can come out now."  
  
I start looking under the bed as Babs starts backing out of the room.   
  
"How about you just lie down and rest for a minute. I'll bring you some cookies."  
  
I wave my hand dismissively as I concentrate on trying to find Tim. He's got to be here somewhere. Maybe a targeted transmitter or something? I look outside the window, even going so far as to open it. Nothing.  
  
Maybe he _is_ broadcasting through my fillings. I'll have Babs listen to my mouth when she comes back.  
  
"I know its you! This is getting annoying! Why don't you just come out already? Sheesh, talk about taking a joke too far."  
  
I hear Babs talking in the other room, her voice low. I can barely make it out over the other mumblings; it sounds like background noise at a cocktail party or something. I know she's talking to Tim, I know it. I push the wheelchair out into the main room, where she's on the phone.  
  
"Yes, Dr. Leslie. Yeah, hearing things. Yeah. Yeah. No..."  
  
Why is she calling Dr. Leslie? Don't tell me she's in on it, too! Man, he's gone all out.  
  
"Babs, hang up the phone. I'm fine. I've just got to find Tim. And I'm sure you know where he is. Heck, you probably helped him set this up."  
  
I wrestle the phone from her, mumble a 'sorry to bother you' to Leslie and hang it up, glaring at her.  
  
"C'mon Babs, you're supposed to be on my side. Where is he?"  
  
Babs just looks at me, her eyes flashing.   
  
"Dick, I don't know what you're talking about. Honestly. I don't hear anything, I'm not working with Tim, and I'm getting kind of scared. I think you may be having some kind of complication or something from your concussion, and I want you to lie down. Now."  
  
Is she acting?  
  
"Babs, I feel fine. Alright, maybe you don't know anything. Can you hear anything coming out of my mouth?"  
  
I open wide and Babs just stares at me as if I've completely lost it. Women.  
  
"Okay, fine, don't help."  
  
I'm studying my shirt buttons for evidence of transceivers when Babs snorts in disgust and moves to her computer.  
  
"I'll settle this once and for all. Tim? You there? Tim, come in."  
  
Tim's voice echoes through Babs' apartment.  
  
"This better really be you, Babs."  
  
"It's me, alright. Where are you right now?"  
  
"I'm still at home, I had to help with dishes. Why?"  
  
"Dick thinks you're making him hear voices to get him back for pretending to be Huntress earlier."  
  
Tim starts laughing.  
  
"Are you serious?"  
  
"Deadly. Tim, this isn't funny." She looks over at me. I roll my eyes. Talk about overreacting.  
  
"Are you doing anything right now? Did you set up anything?"  
  
"Maybe I did and maybe I didn't."  
  
See, I knew it! The little brat's trying to drive me nuts. Babs sighs, holding her head in her hand.  
  
"Tim, this is serious. I think something's wrong with Dick and I need to know you're not playing a joke on him. More importantly, he needs to know. Now be straight with me: are you doing anything to make him hear something I can't?"  
  
Tim's amusement dies down.  
  
"No, seriously. I haven't even had time to come up with a plan yet. Is he really hearing things?"  
  
I say 'no' as Babs says 'yes.'  
  
"Thanks, Tim. Oracle out."  
  
She turns and looks at me, arms folded.  
  
"There. Now can I call Leslie back?"  
  
"Babs, c'mon, he's really aching to get me back good after that. You think he'd tell you?"  
  
She rolls her eyes.  
  
"I thought I was on his side."  
  
"All the more reason for the cover phone call," I shoot back. "You pretend to call him all worried about me and he--"  
  
"Dick, you're being paranoid. Like clinically paranoid. Please just lie down and relax and let me call Doctor Leslie. Please? For me?"  
  
I look at her for one long moment, doubt gnawing me. Maybe she's right.  
  
"Alright. I'll go lie down. But only if you don't call her."  
  
Babs sighs and by the look on her face she doesn't like this one bit, but I'm not about to be embarrassed in front of Doc Leslie because Tim's gotten clever.  
  
"Alright. But if the noise doesn't stop soon you're going to the clinic."  
  
I move into the bathroom and splash some water on my face, staring at my reflection. Maybe she's right. Maybe I am just being paranoid. Maybe--  
  
"AAAAAH!"  
  
I push away from the sink violently enough to slam the wheels of the chair into the side of the tub, almost going head over heels backwards. Babs rushes in, eyes wide, as I right myself, stubbornly refusing to look at the figure in the mirror.  
  
"Dick! What's wrong? What is it?"  
  
She helps me out of the bathroom as I take deep breaths, trying to stop the furious beating of my heart. At least now I know what I'm up against. But how? Why just me and not Babs? Could Crane know...?  
  
Another thought strikes me, worse than the first. He'd done it before. Could all this be one of Scarecrow's hallucinations? The lucky shot, the fall, the injury, my coming to Babs', the whole incredible string of bad luck I'd been having lately? It certainly fits his M.O.  
  
He's just gotten a lot more subtle. I suppress a shiver. The voices are still there. He's given up on scaring me and he's just trying to drive me insane. Maybe I was captured; maybe I didn't escape when I thought I did. Maybe that mugger won. Or maybe this was even before him: what did I do the night before I ran into him? I wrack my brain but I don't really remember; a routine patrol...  
  
How long have I been here?  
  
I swallow the sudden seed of panic as Babs goes on about wanting to take me to the clinic right now. I let her ramble; now that I know the score, I have to figure a way out. I need to wake up out of this nightmare, first of all. How do you force yourself out of a nightmare?   
  
I close my eyes. Wake up. Wake up. It's just a dream, I know it's just a dream. When I open my eyes I'll be awake.  
  
I open them.  
  
Babs looks back at me, brow furrowed with worry.  
  
So much for that idea.   
  
She suggests I lie down again; I decide to take her up on it. Should I ask her to stay with me? Maybe the 'phone call' is the signal for the interrogators. No; if that's the case they've already been alerted. Just let her go.  
  
I wait until she's out of the room, then look through the crack in the door. She makes a beeline for the phone, her back to me. Good.  
  
There's one other way I usually wake up from nightmares, and dream-Babs, if she's anything like real-Babs, will never go for it. I stand up slowly, putting a little weight on my broken leg. It hurts, but I don't hear a crack or a snap so I figure I'm okay. I slowly limp my way to the balcony as she tells Dr. Leslie I'm having 'episodes.'  
  
Well, this is one show that's about to be cancelled.  
  
It's a cold, wet, drizzly night, and the wind is gusting to maybe twenty miles an hour, max. Not too bad. I open the door to the balcony and ease out. Babs sees me and her eyes go wide. I give her a smile and reach up for the lip of the roof, pulling myself up and out of her sight with difficulty. Weaker than I thought. Or am I? I'm probably not even hurt. She slams open the door and screams at me to get back inside now. I ignore her and concentrate on getting my good leg up under me.  
  
The roof isn't as bad as I thought; the rough shingles help with my footing, and the cold air is bracing. A flash of lightning illuminates the city for one brief instant and I smile wryly; this is getting downright theatrical.  
  
I take the foreboding turn of the weather as a sign I'm on the right track and make my way towards the clock face. Might as well go for the whole Hitchcock experience. Or was it Buster Keaton? I'm getting a little woozy from all the exertion. Or maybe they realize I'm snapping out of it and are upping my dosage. I've got to move fast. I limp gingerly over to the ledge and suddenly fall to the shingles.  
  
I look at my leg and there's a Robin attached to it, eyes wide. I don't even struggle to get up, just calmly tell him to let go.  
  
"Dick, I swear I'm not doing anything. The noises or voices or whatever aren't me. I swear."  
  
"I know. Let go."  
  
This seems to surprise him, and I manage to squirm out of his grip. He backs up and circles warily. I twist to my feet, taking a relaxed defensive position. I'm tired and fading fast, and if I'm going to do this I need to do it quick.  
  
"What are you doing up here then?"  
  
I smile a little, hardly believing my own words.  
  
"Jumping."  
  
He just stares at me, mouth hanging open, and its then I strike; a quick kick to the gut, a finger-strike to the temple, and it's nighty-night, Current Boy Wonder.  
  
I turn to the edge again when I hear the voice I've been expecting since I realized what was going on.  
  
"No, you're not. You're going to Leslie's."  
  
I turn again, sighing. I can't beat him; not in this condition. Not physically, anyway. If I run for it he'll just snag me with the jumpline and take me anyway.  
  
"No, I'm not. I'm onto you, all of you."   
  
He stands there, looking as grim and terrible as only he can, hands poised by his hips like a gunslinger out of an old Western. Lightning flashes again. What, no theme from High Noon? No 'The Good, The Bad, And The Ugly' whistle?  
  
I start laughing. He scowls. Well, scowls more. He always scowls when he's in the mask.  
  
"Dick, listen to me. You're having a psychotic episode. We need to get you to Leslie's so she can check you out and see if we can't figure out what's wrong with you."  
  
"I know what's wrong with me, Bruce. I'm going to fix it. I don't need your help. You and the Scarecrow have helped enough."  
  
He pauses, that great brain working, working... Bingo. There should be a lightbulb over his head.  
  
"This isn't a hallucination, Dick. This isn't a dream. This is real. Think about it; aren't you cold? Aren't you wet? Feel your shirt. Can't you smell the odor your cast gives off as the plaster dissolves from the rain?"  
  
And I can; he's good. But then, he has to be. He's Batman. I shiver a bit, plucking at my shirt. I'm rapidly getting tired, and my head's starting to pound.  
  
"You know you were in my last one, too. Back in Bludhaven. You're awfully wrapped up in my fears. You picked the costume a little too well."  
  
He pauses again, digesting that for a moment.  
  
"That may well be. But this isn't Bludhaven. And you're not dreaming. And I am not about to let you throw yourself off of one of my rooftops."  
  
I can't help laughing again. Behind me, I hear Tim stir.  
  
"You know... No, you probably don't, do you."  
  
"Know what, son?"  
  
Ooh, son. He only calls me that when it's serious. My subconscious really is my own worst enemy.  
  
"How hypocritical you are, saving me from myself, yet not allowing -- not even _thinking_ -- that you're the one who needs the saving."  
  
He nods, slowly. He's humoring me, I can tell. Biding his time while Tim gets his act together, gets ready to jump me from behind. I've been your partner a lot longer than him, Bruce; I know this drill.  
  
"You've always been this...this shadow, over me. Larger than life, hell, life itself. The big, bad Batman, infallible, Sherlock Holmes and the Phantom and the Devil himself, all rolled into one. I thought my biggest problem was getting out from under that shadow, but I can't. And I don't know that I want to anymore."  
  
"What do you want, Dick?"  
  
"I want _you_ to come out from that shadow. You're trapped beneath it a hell of a lot more than I ever was. And you know it, don't you."  
  
I hear Tim getting into position behind me.  
  
"He haunts your dreams, too, doesn't he?"  
  
He just stands there like a statue, that damn cape billowing around him like some dark tentacled figure out a Lovecraft novel, stretching out its hand and threatening to engulf him, me, the whole sky. I swear, I almost think he can make it do stuff like that. On purpose. All the better to intimidate you with.  
  
"I hated that damn cape. When I had to wear it, as you. As him. I hate it. It always gets in the way. You should really get rid of it."  
  
"It's saved your life. On more than one occasion."  
  
"Not when I was wearing it. It always dragged me down."  
  
"Well, I'm used to it. And I need it. I'm not quite as capable without it as you are."  
  
"Let's see. Catch."  
  
I go into a forward somersault as Tim flies over my head, helping him along with my good foot and both hands. He hits Bruce and they both go down in a tangle of arms and legs. I've only bought myself about a second or two so I just roll sideways, right off the roof; no time for anything fancy.  
  
The ground rushes up to meet me, but seems to go in slow motion at the same time. I can see the clock tower's hands spinning madly; I can hear Tim's voice shouting and further away, Babs' scream. I'm slightly annoyed that the added weight of the cast causes a slight list to my swan dive.  
  
I really should wake up now.  
  
Any second.  
  
Any second now...  



	7. One Of Those Days Chapter 7

The de-cel cable that's suddenly wrapped around my waist tightens until my cracked ribs scream in protest. I come so close to being street pizza my fingertips brush the ground. The cable relaxes as I rise back up: up and down, up and down, that's me, the world's biggest yo-yo. Damn him. I grab the line, easing my landing, then spin to unwrap the cable, falling flat on my ass in the process. They're coming. They're going to take me back. I've got to get out of this. I've got to wake up. I stand and manage to take two steps before the pain explodes behind my eyes with an audible crack.  
  
First the rigging, then the jumpline, now me. Everything's breaking. There's a familiar voice in my head, reciting something.  
  
Turning and turning the widening gyre  
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;  
Things fall apart; the center cannot hold;  
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world...  
  
It's Jervis Tetch. The Mad Hatter? What the hell is he doing here? I turn slowly in a circle, looking for him. He's nowhere to be seen. Laughter echoes hollowly down the alley.  
  
I scream.  
  
"Come out and fight like a man you psychopathic reject from a bad Simpsons episode!"  
  
Tim's voice comes from behind me.  
  
"At least I'm not the one who wore the disco Darkwing Duck outfit in public."  
  
I whirl around, too fast, and almost fall. Tetch is laughing at me. Tim backs up nervously. He stays well out of my reach, hands up.  
  
"Hey, just a joke. Lighten up, Dick. I just--" He squints. "Your nose is bleeding. Did you hit your head on the way down?"  
  
I put my hand to my upper lip and it comes back red. Shit. My hand starts to shake. This is not real. This is _not_ _real_. Get a hold of yourself, Grayson!  
  
Batman must have decided to help me out with that last idea, because he's suddenly got me in a bear hug from behind. He hisses in my ear. "Stop this foolishness this instant. You're coming with me. That's an _order_."  
  
I jerk my head back, catching him right in the nose. He loosens his grip, but my victory is short-lived. The impact re-ignites the blinding pain of a few moments ago. It travels down my spine to the rest of my body and next thing I know I'm convulsing on the sidewalk. I can't stop my arms from jerking spasmodically. My head is killing me. I taste my own blood as it runs over my mouth and down my chin in a steady stream. Everything is hazy.  
  
I think I'm dying. I don't want to die. Not yet. Not like this. Tim's yelling about the Clench and Batman's telling him to be quiet. Someone lifts me up and then there's nothing but darkness.  
  
-^-  
  
"His eyes are opening again. Look!"  
  
I can see. I don't think I'm dead, but I don't feel right. I'm terribly tired and... far away. There's just this feeling of distance; I can't explain it. Babs. It is Babs' voice. She's staring at me worriedly.  
  
"Dick? Dick, can you hear me?"  
  
Yes I can hear you; you're two inches from my face. She peers into my eyes as Doc Leslie comes into view, frowning and holding a penlight. Oh, I know what's coming. I hate this part.  
  
She shines the light directly into my left eye and speaks even louder than Babs.  
  
"Dick, can you hear me? If you can hear me tell me. Talk to me, Dick. Wiggle your finger or blink, or something; let me know you're in there. C'mon, Dicky."  
  
Dicky? Wow, she hasn't called me that in over a decade. I'm smiling, but I guess it's only on the inside. She can't see it. Her mouth tightens into one thin line. Uh oh. No sucker for me.  
  
"Dick, blink for me. Do something. Please Dick. I need to know you can hear me." She glances at Babs, then corrects herself. "I know you can hear me, but I need you to tell me."  
  
I take a deep breath and try to scream. Nothing. I flutter my lashes like Scarlett O'Hara in a dust storm. Nada. This is all, for some reason, very amusing to detached little me. Babs points at my face.  
  
"Look at his mouth!"  
  
Leslie looks, uncertainly. "What do you see?"  
  
"The corner of his mouth quirked up! I swear, I saw it!"  
  
She did?  
  
Leslie frowns; she doesn't seem convinced. She leans over, right in my face.  
  
"Blink, Dick. Blink."  
  
I think about closing my eyes. Concentrate, try every little trick I can think of from Far East meditation to just plain stubbornness. After about two minutes, Leslie disappears from view. Her voice is triumphant.  
  
"He's in there."  
  
I open my eyes again. Yay me.  
  
"I'll arrange for the spinal tap."  
  
Spinal tap?!  
  
She bustles out the door as Babs beams at me through tears. My hands start jerking, again, of their own free will.   
  
I better get at least TWO suckers for this.  
  
  
-^-  
  
  
When most people hear the words 'spinal tap' they think of a goofy British pseudo-band with annoyingly short-lived drummers. I used to be the same way. Until today. Now its 'lying on your side in the fetal position while someone tries to thread your vertebrae with a Very Big Needle.' It hurts. A lot. The nurses warn you it hurts a lot by saying 'now this is going to sting a little.' If it were just going to hurt, they'd say 'now this won't hurt a bit.'  
  
I had to get a spinal tap because Doc Leslie thinks I have meningitis. At first there was the fear that Tim was right, and it was some new resurgence of the Clench. The fact that I was bleeding from the nose and not the eyes and the absence of boils helped put an end to that pleasant diagnosis. A PET scan eliminates Huntington's. A CT scan rules out a brain tumor but does show some swelling, so Doctor Leslie puts me on steroids to reduce it. It works well enough to bring me to a groggy semi-wakefulness.  
  
The doctors narrow the diagnosis to three possibilities: Parkinson's, a few exotic brain disorders, or complications from the concussion. As they discuss this among themselves, a sharp-eyed nurse spots a rash on my chest. Waving the others over, she says, "Meningitis."  
  
Now they're debating whether to start me on something called vancomycin or wait for the tests to come back. Leslie wants to wait. Another doctor, Malinowski, says there's not enough time and wants to start me on the antibiotics now. I want my damn hands to stop shaking. The argument is getting kind of heated. My nose starts bleeding again. Babs puts a towel to my face. I'm burning up and I ache all over and my hands still won't stop shaking.  
  
"Look. The boy is not a guinea pig. He's been my patient since he was nine years old, and I am not going to pump him full of antibiotics and contribute to the strain of resistant bugs without being sure."  
  
Leslie is in fighting form. Malinowski reverts to that teeth-clenchingly polite tone of voice that doctors usually reserve for particularly recalcitrant patients.  
  
"And if it is meningitis -- and all signs are pointing to it -- you're going to kill him if you wait too long. He's already exhibiting the rash. It's been almost what -- twelve hours since he started exhibiting symptoms? Your window of opportunity is narrowing fast, Doctor Thompkins."  
  
"The nosebleed isn't characteristic of meningitis. And until you know which form we're dealing with you're playing antibiotic roulette, _Doctor_ Malinowski."  
  
"The tests may come back too late. Meningitis moves quickly, too quickly to be overcautious. Have you ever seen an otherwise healthy person die within twenty-four hours?"  
  
I think I'm going to throw up.  
  
"Babs.."  
  
"Too many to count."  
  
I am definitely going to throw up.  
  
"Alright, let's settle this once and for all."  
  
Doctor Malinowski leaves the room, coming back almost immediately with... a shot glass?  
  
"Look, I learned this little trick in my residency in Britain."  
  
He turns the glass on its side and presses it to my chest. "If it is meningitis the rash will show up through the glass. See?"  
  
Leslie looks and, unexpectedly, chuckles. "So much for that idea."  
  
I look down. Doctor Malinowski looks consternated. Babs breathes a sigh of relief.  
  
"It's not meningitis."  
  
I celebrate my un-diagnosis by rolling onto my side and throwing up on Doctor Malinowski's shoes.  
  
The annoyed doctor storms out of the room, muttering about his loafers, as Leslie hides a smile. She then turns and looks at me worriedly.  
  
"But what is it?"  
  
-^-  
  
They decide it's best to quarantine me, just in case. I am now the boy in the bubble; a mere spectator to my own illness. They run more tests: blood tests, urine tests, an MRI. They can't rule out Parkinson's but the rash and the nosebleed make it at best unlikely, at worst a combination of it and something else. Nothing shows up on any of the tests, but my brain is swelling. Encephalitis is the medical term. I thought that was what the Elephant Man had.  
  
I'm shaking almost constantly now. St. Vitus Dance Party USA. I see people dancing in the room, waltzing through me. It's disconcerting, to say the least.  
  
Batman comes by and takes a sample of my blood when no one else is around. He tells me to hold on, he's called in some favors, and he's got 'top people' working on it. Babs gets an idea, tells me she wants to check the CDC's computers, but doesn't want to leave me. I don't want her to leave me, either. I tell her to go anyway.  
  
Tim comes in and keeps me company. I can tell it bothers him; he's uncomfortable sitting in the chair, unable to do anything but watch. I jokingly tell him now he knows how I felt when he was sick. He forces a laugh.  
  
The lights are bothering me. I have Tim turn them down. The fever comes and goes, the nosebleed comes and goes, the aching comes and goes, the shaking comes and goes, the nurses come and go, diagnoses come and go. Everyone's mystified. A little green tree frog tells me its Ebola and I'm going to die. I demand to know what a little green tree frog is doing in Leslie's clinic. Tim freaks and runs to get Doctor Leslie.  
  
There's a clip-clop noise and a zebra walks in, ears swiveling forward and back. I just stare, confused. The zebra speaks.  
  
"The sins of the father are visited upon the son."  
  
The zebra turns its head towards me and one of its eyes glows red. The tree frog laughs.  
  
"He's come to kill you. He said he would kill you."  
  
Whatever happened to angels and devils? Do they make exceptions for circus kids or something?  
  
The zebra stands on his hind legs and pulls a knife. I just watch. He steps towards me.  
  
Tim comes running in with Doctor Leslie in his wake, and the zebra jumps up and disappears into the ceiling. The tree frog glares at me with beady eyes from the windowsill. Leslie is pulling on her gloves when Babs rushes in, hollering something about antibodies. She's talking way too fast. Leslie tells her to slow down.  
  
Babs takes a deep breath.  
  
"Okay, so Batman's running all these tests on Dick's blood and he's searching for anything, and I mean ANYthing, that's out of the ordinary. I decided I'd run all Dick's symptoms in the CDC's computer. Sort of attacking it from both ends. Well, we both found something. I narrowed the list down to about twenty diseases, half of which were pretty rare, and then Batman found this."  
  
She turns to me, holding up a sheaf of papers.  
  
"IgM antibodies."  
  
Huh?  
  
"Huh?"  
  
Even Leslie looks confused. That makes me feel better.  
  
"He found IgM and IgG antibodies in your blood, so I cross-referenced that with the symptoms and came up with three possibilities: Zinga virus, Lunyo virus, and RVF virus. All of which come from different parts of Africa."  
  
Everyone's looking at me now. I haven't been to Africa in years. The frog is pissed. He hops over and lands on the bed, glaring at me. I glance uneasily back at it.  
  
"What are you looking at?"  
  
Everyone seems uncomfortable. Oh, whoops. I smile at them apologetically.  
  
"I was talking to the frog."  
  
This does not help the comfort level. I sigh.  
  
"Sorry. He's... never mind. I haven't been to Africa since before I moved to Bludhaven, Babs."  
  
"Oh, I know. I mean, they only have an incubation period of a week or so max and I know you've been around. So something between then and now must've given it to you."  
  
"How?"  
  
She looks through her printouts.  
  
"Um... mosquito bites, coming into contact with the blood or flesh of a deceased or infected animal -- a lot of butchers and slaughterhouse workers get them that way. Herders, too. They cause a lot of spontaneous abortions in ruminants and kill almost all the newborns. Older animals are a little less susceptible, but that's often how they spread. Mosquitoes to animals, animals to people."  
  
The frog crawls up the blanket. I jump when he touches my cast. He hisses at me.  
  
"Why won't you die?!"  
  
I stare at my knee, where the frog is perched.  
  
"I don't want to die..."  
  
Babs smiles reassuringly.  
  
"That's just it, Dick. They're not fatal...well, not usually. Very rarely. In most of those cases the victim was far away from medical treatment and in poor health and hemorrhaging..."  
  
The frog is hopping mad now, literally. He jumps up and down on my stomach. Ugh, not good. I try to push him off but he keeps evading me.  
  
"Dammit! He said he'd kill you!"  
  
"Yeah, well, never trust a zebra."  
  
Everyone's looking at me again.  
  
Leslie asks slowly what the cure is. At this point Babs gets a little less excited.  
  
"Oh... well... There isn't one. They say to just treat the symptoms." She gives me a reassuring smile. "But most of the patients recover with no ill effects in a few days, at least the milder cases. Dick's is a little more severe..."  
  
I look from the frog, who's stopped bouncing and appears to be cheering up, to Babs.  
  
"What about more severe cases?"  
  
"Well, the most common side effect is bilateral retinitis. That only happens in a very small percentage--"  
  
"What's that mean, Babs?"  
  
Leslie answers for her.  
  
"It means you might lose your sight."  
  
Oh great. The frog laughs. I glare at him.  
  
"Shut up. I can still see just fine. Well enough to have frog legs for dinner."  
  
Babs glances worriedly from Doctor Leslie to me.  
  
"Like I said, it's very rare, but so is the encephalitis. The symptoms don't necessarily all happen at once, or even in all--"  
  
I interrupt.  
  
"So we'll just have to wait and see. That's fine. Someone get this damn frog off my stomach."  
  
"No! You're supposed to die! Bleed out and die!"  
  
"You heard the lady; I am not going to bleed out and die."  
  
Babs looks uncomfortable.  
  
"There's a less than one percent chance of a bleed out happening and even then about half of those live." She glances at an open-mouthed Tim apologetically. "There's only about a one percent chance of the encephalitis happening too... but we don't know if that's from your concussion or the virus..."  
  
The frog jumps up and rams himself into my nose. It starts bleeding again. I curse and grab a towel. My head starts pounding. The frog is nowhere to be seen. I think he's in my head.  
  
Babs goes on to tell Leslie about how she shouldn't blame herself; no one would've expected any of those viruses named to show up in the U.S.  
  
My case was further complicated by other problems. According to my bloodwork, I'd apparently had a touch of the flu the previous week. And, of course, this damn concussion didn't help much.  
  
I manage to staunch the nosebleed and lie back, exhausted. Only a few more days of this.  
  
Babs and Leslie discuss the diseases, looking over the printouts. Leslie asks Babs how she got into the CDC's database. Babs says she has 'computer friends' and leaves it at that. I'm drifting off when Babs mentions the origins of the various viruses, and something she says makes me bolt upright.  
  
"What was that last one?"  
  
Babs looks over at me, surprised.  
  
"Are you talking to me or the frog?"  
  
I roll my eyes. "You, Babs. The frog's gone." Duh.  
  
"I said the RVF virus was the first discovered, in the Rift Valley in Kenya. Thus the name: Rift Valley Fever."  
  
Kenya. The knife. The zebra. Sins of the father.  
  
The mugger. He was too fast. I knew it. I wasn't that off my game. He _was_ holding back. The room spins dizzily. The frog inside my head is screaming.  
  
"Deathstroke."  
  
Babs and Leslie both look at me uneasily; I'm accustomed to it by now. I need to lie down.  
  
"You're not going to die, Dick."  
  
I don't know about that.   



	8. One Of Those Days -- Chapter 8

I don't like bugs. When I was a kid, there was this guy who ran one of the sideshow attractions. Miretti's Amazing Flea Circus. There was a flea orchestra, a flea that jumped through a flaming hoop, dancing fleas, singing fleas, you name it, he had it. Later on, I found out that the fleas in the orchestra were glued to their seats. This bothered me. So one day I just up and let all the fleas go. The guy was so mad, because they were human fleas, and you just couldn't find human fleas anymore (the guy would actually let these fleas feed off his arm as the grand finale. It was gross). I got grounded for that one, literally -- no trapeze for a week.   
  
I don't think I really started disliking bugs until this one time with the Titans, when Kole and Joey had disappeared for longer than usual. Last we'd heard, they'd gone upstate to her dad's farm where he was working on some kind of experiment to let his family survive the coming nuclear Armageddon. Kole's crystal-creating powers were sort of a side-effect of this experimentation. Turns out dear ol' dad was breeding insect-people hybrids. We got caught and very nearly cross-bred ourselves. Getting your ribs crushed by a big ol' bug-woman is a lot less fun than it sounds.   
  
So anyway, I guess it shouldn't have surprised me that the bugs would come visit during my illness. You know, just to check in, say hey, thank me for freeing them all those years ago, maybe grab a bite to eat. On me.  
  
I noticed the first bug while talking to Babs. She was reading some book or another on African diseases or something, and I was telling her about the zebra. The way she reacted I might as well have been nine years old again and telling her anything to keep her from remembering it was bedtime.  
  
"So then the zebra pulls out this knife..." I squint, trying to see if she's listening. They're keeping the lights pretty low for me, which is nice except when I want to see something.  
  
She just nods distractedly, and flips another page in her book. "Uh huh..."   
  
I can still feel the bug crawling up my arm. I rub it distractedly. "And then Tim runs in and the zebra disappears into the ceiling..."  
  
"Really? My goodness." Okay, now I know she's not listening.  
  
"And Doctor Leslie puts on a pink tutu and starts dancing the lead of Swan Lake." I can feel them under my shirt. There's more than one. I'm trying to ignore it, because the bugs and the story have reminded me of something that happened yesterday... something important I remembered. It's so hard to think when you've got bugs crawling on you.  
  
Babs nods again. "Uh huh... huh?" She looks up at me, quizzically. "Did you really see her do that or did you just make that up?"  
  
I frown at her, accusingly. "You're not listening. God!" I rip open my pajama shirt and pull out one of my IVs in the process. Oh man. There's bugs everywhere. I start brushing frantically. Babs drops her book, watching me with this horrified expression on her face.  
  
"Dick, stop it! What on earth are you doing?"  
  
"Can't you see them?! They're all over me!"  
  
"WHAT are all over you?"  
  
"The BUGS!"  
  
Babs grabs the nurse's call button, and not five seconds later one comes to the window of the room. "I need a little help in here!"  
  
It takes four big guys all dressed in scrubs and masks and gloves and face shields and other general medical combat gear to hold me still long enough for Babs to give me a shot. My arms immediately feel like lead balloons and they strap me down to the bed (not like I'd be moving soon anyway). Babs reinserts my IV, taping it down, then brushes my hair out of my eyes. I think the shot must be drugging the bugs too, because they slowly stop crawling. I suddenly realize that Babs isn't wearing any protective gear.  
  
"How come you're playing nurse?" She ducks her head, and I reach up to brush her hair out of her eyes. Well, try to. The padded wrist restraints put a damper on that idea. She brushes it out of the way herself after a moment, smiling at me teasingly.  
  
"Everyone else is afraid to get near you. You slugged one of the orderlies." She winks.  
  
I don't remember doing that. "I didn't either. Did I?"   
  
She shakes her head, smile fading. "No, I'm just kidding. I've kind of... volunteered to look after you."  
  
I frown. Something's not right, but the drugs are making my thinking sluggish. "Why aren't you wearing ...stuff?" I try and point. My wrist just clanks against the guardrail of the bed.  
  
She holds up her hands, then takes off the latex gloves. I didn't notice, being covered in insects and all. I shake my head.  
  
"No mask, no gown, none of that other stuff..."  
  
She sighs, then puts on a smile as if it were a hat she didn't particularly like. "I'm kind of quarantined here with you, Contagious Wonder. I've been pretty well exposed to you so you're stuck with me until what you've got is no longer catching." She sits back and picks up her book. "I figure since I've got to be here the least I can do is be helpful, so they showed me how to change your IV and give you shots and other things that might otherwise expose folks here to your illness."  
  
"Oh." I feel rotten now, and it's not just the fever. "I'm sorry Babs."  
  
She frowns at me, waggling her finger. "None of that. I knew what I was getting into when Tim called me. You've never been a model patient, no reason this time should be any different."  
  
"Yeah, but... I don't want you to have this. I didn't mean to--"  
  
"Enough, Boy Guinea Pig. You get some sleep, okay?" She leans over and kisses me on the forehead. I'm getting awfully drowsy.  
  
"Babs, thanks. I mean it. For everything. If I don't -- I mean, if anything... I just, I don't want to, you know... go, without..."  
  
Babs leans over and whispers in my ear, "I love you too, Boy Wonder."  
  
I feel my heart skip a beat and blink at her owlishly.  
  
"Oh."  
  
"Get some sleep." She strokes my cheek, smiling at me. I can't fall asleep now! I can't! There's too many things I need to say!  
  
Next thing I know, it's daylight. Or at least not so dark. Maybe dawn, or false dawn. I hear some movement in the room and smile, remembering last night. "I love you. I meant to say that before I was knocked out."  
  
"Have you recently handled aborted sheep fetuses?"  
  
That sounded like Batman. I open my eyes. Oh God, it _is_ Batman. I close them again and hope like hell he's wearing a pink tutu and that I didn't just say what I just said to who I just said it to.  
  
I open them again. No tutu, but there is the whole clear-visor mask thing. And he's wearing a containment suit over the Suit. He looks...grim.  
  
"Um, I uh... that was not meant for you. No! I mean... I don't mean I DON'T, but uh, last night was... you weren't... Did you just say something about sheep fetuses?"  
  
My hands flop uselessly against the bedrail as I speak, held down by the straps. I'm the kind of person that talks with his hands so this is driving me nuts. It's like being asked to write but not use punctuation. And that damn cowlick is falling in my eyes again. He moves over beside the bed and I squeeze my eyes shut. If this is a hallucination, this next bit is gonna hurt and I don't want to see it coming.  
  
Instead, there's a pause and then, just when I'm pondering opening my eyes to see whether or not he's disappeared, I feel a clumsy hand on my forehead, and the ticklish hairs are brushed away. I open them again, expecting to see Babs, but it's still Bruce. He's still wearing the containment suit. He's still Batman. But Batman's not clumsy. I study him a moment, trying to figure out if this is real.  
  
"Yes, I did. One of the ways the disease you have is transmitted is through handling of contaminated animal blood or byproducts, and the disease causes spontaneous abortion in ruminants, especially sheep." He looks at me expectantly. I try and take all this in, sneaking a peek to try and find where Babs went. This is weird even for me.  
  
He, of course, knows what I'm doing. "She's sleeping." He nods towards the other side of the bed, and I turn, and there she is, curled in her chair, head resting against a pillow propped between the back of the chair and the wall. I hear my heart monitor start beeping faster as I blush. Some people wear their heart on their sleeve. Mine might as well be announced over the P.A. I hate hospitals.  
  
"No. I haven't." I look at him again, defiantly, fighting the redness in my face. He frowns, studying me as if I'm a particularly puzzling bit of evidence under an electron microscope. I resist the perverse urge to stick my tongue out at him, then figure what the hell and do it anyway. He starts. I smile. He gives me The Look.  
  
"I still can't fathom how you contracted this disease."   
  
He says it like its my fault. It's got to be the real Batman. I start to slip into that old familiar pattern, opening my mouth to make some smartass comeback or another, then pause. Batman doesn't know something. And he's _admitting_ it. Cue the Twilight Zone music.  
  
"There was something..." I begin, hesitantly. I'm still kind of hazy on the details, but I know who's behind this. Or I did. I was telling Babs about the zebra and the frog and then... "Where did this virus originate again?"  
  
"Three possible viruses, very similar. One was in the Central African Republic, another in Uganda, and the third in Kenya." He's watching me again. I lick my lips nervously, thinking. Then it hits me, again. "Kenya. Deathstroke."  
  
Batman nods, slowly. "Yes, he was headquartered in Kenya, but a mutual place of origin is rather slim evidence."  
  
"Remember that scar on my stomach I told you about? The one given to me by that mugger, when I was off my game? Well, I don't think that was an ordinary mugger." I clear my dry throat, not used to all this talking. "Can you get me a glass of water or take these off so I can get it myself?" I clank my bindings against the bedrail again.  
  
Batman looks from the restraints to me, then nods, removing them. I rub my wrists gratefully. He gets me a glass of water but I'm having a little trouble lifting it. This does not bode well for my plan of capturing Deathstroke and figuring out why he wants me dead... this time.   
  
"Dick? You alright?"  
  
I nod, finally managing to take a sip without spilling it all over me.   
  
"Yeah, sorry."  
  
Batman nods, watching me carefully. "You seriously think it's Deathstroke."  
  
I sigh, and nod. "I really do. I don't know of anyone else with moves like that who'd have the brains to pull something like this off. Rolly's not this subtle, and I can't think of anyone else who moves like Slade that would want to kill me. Hell, I don't even know why HE'D want to kill me. I don't think I've done anything to piss him off lately. Well, except free the Manbat, but that's not exactly a capital offense."  
  
Batman nods, and I can almost see the wheels turning under those pointy ears. "You know this disease isn't fatal, most of the time."  
  
I nod, slowly. I think I know what he's getting at, but...  
  
"You think he wanted me out of the way? Why?"  
  
Batman shakes his head. "Maybe a heist, maybe there was something in Bludhaven he wanted. Maybe someone else put him up to it. Maybe he was trying to send you a message."  
  
I lay back, thinking about this. "We could get Babs on seeing what might have interested him in the last-- oh." I look over at the corner where she's napping and shake my head.  
  
"She's quarantined, but we might be able to get her some kind of equipment if she's going to be here a while. I don't want to push her."  
  
I nod. "So what do you think Deathstroke was trying to tell me? Other than 'I could have killed you if I wanted to.' Maybe it's an ego thing. He was kind of messed up after Joe's death."  
  
Batman shakes his head. "Wilson doesn't strike me as the kind of man who'd play a petty game like that for no good reason. But you know him better. Would he do something like this?"  
  
I shake my head, slowly, pushing my hair out of my face. I really need a haircut. "He really... Joe's death really affected him." I sigh. "I guess having to kill your own son does that to you. I haven't really seen him since a little bit after that, but it changed him. He was never squeamish about killing -- I mean, the guy was a mercenary -- but, something like this? No. If he'd meant to kill me, he would have. I don't think he would try now, because as much as my ego makes me hate saying it, it'd bring you down on him. I also don't think he was playing. I think you're right and this was a message, but what... that someone's gunning for me? There's a price on my head?"  
  
Batman moves over to the window and looks out, hands behind his back. "Possible. I haven't heard anything of that nature, though."  
  
I pick at the blanket in my lap idly, thinking. "He's calling me out? A challenge?"  
  
He pauses, tilting his head, mind working. "Possible. He gives you a mystery to solve that leads you to him. We figure out the who from the what and the how. That still leaves the where and the why. He wants you to know it's him, fine. But why? And there's no idea of where, unless he wants you to go to Kenya, which I find highly unlikely. As familiar as he appears to be with this disease, he would know you'd be in no condition to travel."  
  
I immediately come back with, "I'm alright," but I know he's right. As usual.   
  
"Okay, so, maybe the idea is after we figure out who he is to call him out in return. At least, that's the only way I can think of getting some answers. Lure him out, give him something irresistible, wait for him to pounce."  
  
He turns back towards me, and nods again, slowly. "I think you may be right. Slade Wilson is not exactly a subtle man. If he wanted to send a message he'd do so in an unmistakable way. This has a feeling of... subterfuge to it that goes beyond a simple challenge. I think he wants you to know it was him, but he didn't want anyone else to know. I also think he wanted to take you out of play for a time. Perhaps someone did want you dead and contracted Slade for the job, and he for whatever reason pulled his punch, so to speak." He shakes his head. "Though that goes against everything we know about the man."  
  
I wave my hand. "Fine. We'll confirm all this when we find him."  
  
Batman arches an eyebrow at me. "And just how do you plan on doing that?"  
  
I grin, slowly. "I have an idea..."  
  
I argue with him for fifteen minutes straight before he finally concedes. I'm exhausted but triumphant. Tomorrow, I get sprung from the hoosegow. Slade Wilson, here I come. 


	9. One Of Those Days -- Chapter 9

I wake up the next day stiff, sore and very glad of it, because it means that I'm -- well, not back to normal, per se, but in my right mind again. After the last few... days? Weeks? How long have I been here? I'm not even sure. I sit up, slowly, and look around. Fresh cast. That's right, I broke my leg. I keep forgetting. The instant I see the cast it starts itching. Figures. Hey, wait a minute: are my toenails red?  
  
Tim comes through the door with a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Oh good, you're awake."   
  
He immediately glances at my feet and I know I'm going to be fine, because the little twerp wouldn't dare pull a stunt like this on a dying man. "I was beginning to think your pedicure would wear off before you came to."  
  
"When did you start playing with nail polish?" I adjust the bed to sit up with a bit more ease.  
  
"About the same time you started cross-dressing, _Helena_." He sits at the edge of my bed, still with that odd not-quite-smile on his face. "Babs helped. I just did the letters."  
  
Letters? I peer at my foot. 'Gotya' is on my left foot and 'again' is on my right, in white polish over the red. "How long has that been on?"  
  
Tim fidgets with the blanket. He's awfully subdued for a man triumphant. "About two days."  
  
Two days?  
  
"How long have I been here?"  
  
He still doesn't look up. "Here at the clinic? About a week."  
  
A week?! Too much time laying around while Deathstroke's out there running free assaulting people. My stomach growls: too much time since I've eaten last, too. "Well let's hope your cooking skills are up to par with your fashion sense. Unless Babs has made bread..." I look at him hopefully, and he still doesn't look up. My heart gets that sinking feeling.  
  
"Oh God. She's got it, doesn't she?"  
  
He refuses to look at me, finding a spot on the linoleum very interesting instead. "She didn't wake up yesterday. We were painting your toes just the night before and laughing and then she didn't wake up." He finally musters the nerve to look me in the eye, and his expression goes right to my heart. "She's in a coma, Dick."  
  
I look around the room, but its different from the one I was in last. Babs is nowhere to be found. "Where is she?"  
  
"In your old room. She's quarantined. Dr. Leslie said the virus has already mutated, gotten more serious --" He hurriedly continues at the look of dread on my face, " -- but she'll pull through, Dick. You know her, she's stubborn as they come. This isn't enough to keep her down."  
  
"I want to see her." I move to stand and the room hazes white. I sit back down and wait for my vision to clear. When it does, Tim's next to me, and I can see the tears in his eyes.  
  
"Dick, you can't. The virus has mutated. That means you could get it again."  
  
"I said I want to see her. Now."  
  
Tim sighs and helps me up. I refuse the offer of a wheelchair. It's been two weeks, I can walk on the stupid cast now, and I plan on doing a lot more than that on it in the very near future.  
  
We weave our way down the hall and stop in front of the glass. She's lying in a hospital bed, roughly in the same place mine was, hooked up to all sorts of machines. I watch it monitor her heartbeat for awhile. Strong and steady, but slow. Her eyes are closed. The only real color in the white room is her hair, spread across the pillowcase. I swallow the lump in my throat and touch the glass briefly before turning to Tim.  
  
"Cave. Now."  
  
Tim eyes me warily and I can read his thoughts. "Yeah, I'm going all Batman on you. All the more reason not to argue with me."  
  
He sighs and helps me into a chair. "Let me get the car." He heads down the hallway as I lean my head against the wall. If I tilt my head up I can still see Babs' hair.  
  
"And Tim?"  
  
He turns. "Yeah?"  
  
I allow myself the barest hint of a smile. "You better pray he's got nail polish remover."  
  
Tim flashes me a ghost of a smile and is gone.  
  
  
  
I step out of the elevator and into the Batcave. As usual, the first thing that hits me are the memories: we used to spread the workout mats over there, in that corner. Where the Cray is now is where Batman slugged me in the jaw after I confronted him about Jason's death. Jason's costume is still in its case, still in the exact same place it's been since...  
  
I shake off the mood that's trying to drag me down and move to the computer to pull up Slade Wilson's files, settling into the chair gingerly. Like a wraith, Alfred appears at my elbow, bearing sandwiches and hot cocoa.   
  
"Welcome home, Master Dick. I had hoped to see you again under less... pressing circumstances."  
  
I smile and take one of the sandwiches. Mm, turkey. "Hi Alfred. Good to see you too. How's Brentwood been treating you?"  
  
Alfred gives a long-suffering sigh. "As well as can be expected."  
  
I grin. "That bad, huh? Well, if you ever get tired of babysitting Tim you can always come down and take care of my place."   
  
Alfred just arches one of his eyebrows. "A fronte praecipitium a tergo lupi."  
  
It takes me a second. "'Cliffs in front and wolves behind?' Tossing Latin at me in my condition is totally unfair. And hey! I'm not that bad!"  
  
Alfred smiles as he takes the tray. "If your housekeeping skills are as rusty as your Latin..."  
  
I smirk. "Har de har har."  
  
I take a bite of the sandwich and realize I haven't had real food in what seems like forever. I finish off the rest of it before the computer finishes pulling up everything its got on The Terminator. Alfred comes over and puts a hand on my shoulder.  
  
"Are you sure you're up to this, lad?"  
  
I sigh and nod, giving him a comforting smile. "Yes, Alfred, I'm sure. And no, you can't talk me out of it, and yes, I know I have no more sense than Master Bruce, and yes, I will be going to bed in a little while because I know I need my rest and you've probably spiked the cocoa anyway."  
  
Alfred just chuckles and shakes his head. "Well, it is a small comfort that you have at least been paying attention all these years." He cocks an eyebrow. "Now if I could just get you to listen to reason, as opposed to merely acknowledging it..."  
  
I pat his hand. "One of these days, Alfred." I turn and start going over the files, and he makes his way to the stairs.  
  
"Master Dick?"  
  
I half-turn, cocking an ear in his direction. "Yeah Alfred?"  
  
"Miss Gordon will be fine. She comes from a strong line. And she has quite the young man for which to live."  
  
I muster up a smile for him. "Thanks, Alfred." He nods and heads up the stairs as I turn back towards the screen, then remember...  
  
"Oh, Alfred?"  
  
He stops again, turning. "Yes, Master Dick?"  
  
"Do we have any... acetone?"  
  
"I believe in the crime lab, Master Dick."  
  
"Thanks again, Alfred."  
  
"You're welcome, Master Dick." He heads back upstairs, tossing off over his shoulder, "Though I do have nail polish remover for getting rid of stubborn stains should you wish to avail yourself of a milder solution to your pedicure problem."  
  
I just smirk. Never misses a trick, does he. "Thank you, Alfred."  
  
I turn and wait until the echo of his footfalls have died away before applying a stimpatch to my upper arm. Kids don't try this at home and all that but I've got a potential murderer to track down and I'm running on fumes. Alright Dick, let's not get too morbid. No one's dead, yet. I settle in and begin to read the file, refreshing my memory on Deathstroke, the Terminator, a.k.a. Slade Wilson.  
  
And man, does it bring back memories. Old memories. Like Teen Titans when the title still applied old. We first ran into Slade because his oldest son, Grant, had tried to follow in Daddy's footsteps and off the Teen Titans as a contracted assassin for the H.I.V.E. He ended up dying from what the H.I.V.E. had done to him to make him a super-assassin like his father; the abilities they had given him drew their power from his body itself, ultimately cannibalizing it and killing him. How exactly this was our fault, I don't know, but Slade blamed us for his death.   
  
He took on the contract and damn near succeeded with help from a psychopathic mole named Tara Markov, who'd infiltrated the Titans with a hard-luck story and some pretty impressive earth-moving powers. We were a lot more trusting back then and finally told her our secret identities. She took the information right to Deathstroke and he caught almost all of us. Luckily, I'd taken leave of the Titans for a time to get my head straight so I was opted out of the contract (not that he didn't try). Finally, it took me, his younger son Joseph, and his ex-wife Adelaide to stop Deathstroke and Terra along with the H.I.V.E. After Tara's betrayal and death, Joe had a hard time winning our trust, but he did and was a great member of the Titans.  
  
God, Joey. That one still hurts. I settle back, rubbing my temples. Joe Wilson was born after Slade had had his body changed by the experiments the military was conducting on him without his knowledge. He inherited some genetic quirks of his own, like the ability to possess people by just looking into their eyes and making what he called 'contact.' He could control their bodies but not their thoughts, and they could still speak (if they were conscious). Joe couldn't speak; he was mute thanks to his father. When he was really little he was kidnapped by some enemy of his dad's and Slade thought he'd just go in there guns blazing and get his kid back rather than trying to say, bargain with the maniac holding a knife his son's throat. He managed to save Joe but the knife took his vocal cords. His mother taught him how to fight but he was the kindest, gentlest, most understanding guy you'd ever want to meet.   
  
I shake my head to clear it of that reverie, and quickly skim over the details of Joe's death. I don't like to remember him the way he died. He wasn't himself, not until the very end when he begged his father to kill him in a moment of lucidity as the souls of Azareth fought for possession of his fast-decaying body. I can still see Deathstroke running him through...  
  
Alright, that's enough. Let's just stick to Deathstroke, shall we, former Boy Wonder? You've got enough nightmare material from what's going on right now without dredging up ancient history.  
  
I skim the file, ignoring references to Joe. Okay, there's the Kenya connection... Slade always did consider himself the Great White Hunter type. Maybe he's moved up on the food chain? There are lots of holes in Batman's files on Deathstroke. He goes missing for several years, is presumed dead at least twice... Healing factor, no doubt. Alright, I know all this, where was he last seen?  
  
Jean-Paul Valley was the last person to see him according to Batman's file. Since then he's apparently gone underground. No sign, no word. Nothing.  
  
Time for Plan B. I call Batman.  
  
  
  
In just two short hours I'm ready. Let's hear it for Spandex; it stretches over the cast, which I've had Harold paint to look like my boot. He's even rigged a kind of leg-belt to replace the compartments. I decide to take one of the cars instead of the motorcycle; all the better to sneak back into Bludhaven. One short stop at my apartment and another at my hideout and I'm set. I resist the urge to take to the air, instead taking a nap as I wait for the sun to go down. A quick call back home to find Babs' condition remains unchanged and I don my disguise and take off.  
  
The disguise bothers me, but I know it's sure to bring out Wilson. I've had Batman plant news on the criminal grapevine that a weird mute blond kid has been wandering around the back streets of Bludhaven in a daze. Now it's my turn to act the part. I walk for hours, aimlessly, limping a bit and not just for show. It's getting late; the wig itches, and I'm tired. I'm about ready to slap on another patch when I feel it, more than hear it; he's here. He's watching. One hand goes into my pocket. I hunker down into a doorway at the mouth of an alley as if I'm getting ready to bed down for the night. He waits almost a half an hour before he lands lightly in front of my doorway. I pull out an aerosol can and let loose, missing him and hitting the wall behind him with the spray. He laughs.  
  
"You missed."  
  
"No, I didn't." I summon up all my strength as he starts, recognizing my voice, and in that second that he's caught off guard I manage to land a solid kick with my good leg square in his solar plexus. He flies back, hitting the wall.  
  
"You shouldn't have done this, kid," he threatens warningly, and pushes off the wall to come after me.  
  
Or should I say, tries to. Looks like the adhesive I tested on Tim works on brick too. Slade is stuck.  
  
"Evening, Wilson. Thought it was time we had a chat about your health code violations."  
  
Slade just stares at me as I take the wig off, eyes flashing with something akin to desperation.  
  
"Listen to me, kid. I need your help."  
  
Okay, I've gotta admit I didn't see _that_ one coming.  
  
"The only thing I'm helping you with is a prison uniform, Slade."  
  
He stop struggling and looks me dead in the eye. "I mean it, Grayson. I've been looking for you."  
  
"Looking for my corpse, you mean. After you nailed me with that knife..."  
  
He gives me a blank look. "What?"  
  
I roll my eyes. "This is beneath you, Slade. You were mugging people to lure me out into a fight so you could try to kill me with this Rift Valley Fever virus. Are you working for Blockbuster or is this a personal thing?"  
  
Slade straightens and even glued to a wall like a bug on flypaper he still makes me take a cautious step back. Good thing I did, too, because he heaves with his legs and leaves most of the skin on his back, along with his uniform, stuck to the brick. Before I can say so much as 'scat' he's got his hand on my throat and has slammed me back against the opposite wall so hard I see stars. When he speaks his voice is low and dead serious.  
  
"You listen to me and you listen good, boy. If I wanted you dead I sure as hell would do more than stick you with a knife coated in a virus that hardly ever kills its victims. If I wanted you dead you wouldn't still be breathing right now."  
  
He lets go and I brace myself against the wall, crouching warily and loosening my collar with the other hand. He turns around as if to show he's no threat to me (or more likely that I'm no threat to him) and I watch his back as it starts healing, skin growing up through the blood. He grabs the coat I was using to cover my suit and pulls it on.  
  
"I'm working for Blockbuster, yes. Not willingly. He has my daughter."  
  
I shake my head, trying to make sure I'm hearing clearly. "Your daughter?"  
  
"Rose."  
  
"I didn't even know you had a daughter."  
  
"Neither did I until a year or so ago. Anyway, he's got her and I want her back, and since you seem to be his main thorn in the side, I figured I'd look you up."  
  
I shake my head, slowly. "This isn't like you, Wilson. You're not the type to be blackmailed. Why didn't you try to get her back?"  
  
He just looks from me to the blond wig on the ground, and I know why. Joe. Some lessons stick with you, I guess.  
  
"Ok. You said you were working for Blockbuster though. How, if not to kill me?"  
  
He shrugs and looks back at me, and I realize for the first time he's not wearing his mask. Weird.  
  
"Oh, it was to kill you. Blockbuster does not like you at all, Junior. I agreed. Gave me a great excuse to go looking for you. But you seemed to have disappeared from the face of the earth. I take it you've been recuperating from whoever stabbed you?"  
  
I nod, slowly. This conversation is not going at all how I'd pictured it.  
  
"Yeah... Well, from the virus, anyway. And that's how I knew it was you; that virus is native to Kenya. The guy who cut me moved faster than any normal human could. The pieces added up. Now you're telling me that even though Blockbuster hired you to kill me that wasn't you?"  
  
He shakes his head, frowning. "No. Sounds like someone wanted you to think that, though. Someone who knew your detective background would find such a thing. Not too easy..." He gives a nod of approval. "Not a bad frame-up job, all told."  
  
I nod back, smirking. "Yeah, real convenient. Only thing is, who'd want to frame you for killing me, or at least trying to?"  
  
He shrugs. "I don't know, and I don't care. That can wait until after I get my daughter back. Are you going to help me?" He gives me the once-over. "Are you going to be able to help me?"  
  
"Yeah, I should be able to do a little breaking and entering. You know where he's keeping her?"  
  
He doesn't look convinced. "Maybe we should call in Batman for backup. You don't look too hot."  
  
Oh, that does it. I send a sucker punch right to his jaw, snapping his head back. "Satisfied now?"  
  
He just eyes me, rubbing his jaw. "You're damn lucky I need you in one piece right now, kid. Let's go." 


	10. One Of Those Days Chapter 10

We head to the hotel where Slade's staying. Nice place, roof access. I'll have to remember its location. In his room he's got a state of the art laptop (Curtains Panorama, be still my beating heart) and an Ethernet port. I jack in and try hard not to think about the lack of a certain teasing redhead's voice in my ear.

"Alright, we've gotta figure out where Blockbuster's hiding her. He's got safehouses all up and down the East Coast, but knowing him he'd want to keep her under his close personal supervision."

Slade reclines on the bed and starts sharpening a knife. I don't know where he pulled that out of. "So she'll be in that fortress he calls a house."

I keep typing. "She'll be wherever he is, or close by. We could take a look around his house..."

Slade sits up abruptly. "No. He said he'd kill her if his security picked up so much as a stray cat on his property."

I push angrily away from the desk, swivelling the chair to face him. "Then what exactly do you want me to do, Slade? We can't get her if we can't get in the building. We can get in the building--"

Slade cuts me off with, "You can promise me you can get into his headquarters without setting off a single alarm or alerting one guard, find her -- again without being detected -- and then get her out?"

I glare at him. "I can get in. I will probably remain undetected if I have time to study --"

He cuts me off again, the rude bastard. "We don't have time, Nightwing. That's the whole problem. I don't have time."

I start to respond but my wrist communicator starts vibrating. I flip it open to see Batman's grim visage. "Nightwing." 

"Are you alone?"

I glare at Deathstroke. "No, but its alright. Go ahead."

He arches an eyebrow but doesn't argue. "She's not doing well, Dick."

My stomach feels like its got a frozen rock in it.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean she's not doing well. She's starting to hemmorage. We need a cure for this."

The rock starts travelling up my throat. "Or what? Or she'll die? Is that what you're telling me?"

He doesn't say anything, just looks at me. "The doctor and I have been talking. She's been trying to use the antibodies we found in your blood but the virus has mutated too much for them to be of any use. If we could get antibodies that actually matched the virus, or could adapt to it..."

"How? From who?" I look over at Slade, who's listening intently, and nod. "I understand. Let me ask him."

Hearing Batman surprised would be worth it if the situation were different. "He's there with you? ASK him?"

I ignore Batman, looking at Slade. "Think your healing factor could handle mutated West Nile virus?"

Slade nods thoughtfully. "Easily. Who's sick?"

"None of your damn business. We need your blood."

"I need my daughter back."

"I will get your daughter back, Slade, just get up to Gotham as fast as you can."

He snorts. "You're lucky you can stand right now, kid. You're not fooling me. I'm not sending you in alone and getting her killed. We get Rose back and you get your blood with my compliments. Not before."

I grit my teeth and look down at the comlink. "How long do we have?"

"Hours, a day at the most."

I glare at Slade half-pleading half-angry. "An innocent woman could die if you don't do this right now!"

He glares right back. "I know. That's why we're going to rescue her."

This is taking too damn long. "Fine," I snap, looking at the comlink. "We'll be there as soon as we can. Tell her to hang in there. Tell her..." I have to swallow the lump in my throat.

"Yes?"

"Nevermind. I'll tell her myself. Nightwing out."

I flip the comlink closed and look at Slade. "Alright. You said you were working for Blockbuster to try and kill me, right?"

Slade nods.

"That means you have some way of contacting him, yes?"

Slade nods again.

"Great. Call him up, or send your carrier pigeon or do whatever it is you do to get ahold of him and tell him you've got Nightwing, alive, and are willing to trade for your daughter's life -- plus your usual fee -- for giving him the pleasure of killing me himself. He'll probably decide the place but you insist it be one hour from now or you kill me. He hates me enough to give you that much and it'll make sure he stays local."

Slade nods again, smirking. "I would've suggested it if I thought for a minute you'd trust me enough to play along."

"I don't trust you any further than I can throw you, Deathstroke. I've just got no other choice. Make the call."

In one hour's time we find ourselves outside a burnt-out factory that looks strangely familiar. Blockbuster, apparently in a fit of irony, has picked the chop shop I torched when making my less than graceful escape two weeks ago. I liked him so much better before he had a brain.

Deathstroke parks the car and looks at me. I look at the warehouse. There's a light on in the area of the office. I can barely make out the armed guards patrolling the roof.

"You ready, kid?"

"Ready enough. You take Blockbuster, I'll grab Rose and skedaddle. Soon as I'm clear I'll beep you and you get the hell out."

"Sounds like a plan to me." He exits the car and walks over to my side, opening the door. I obligingly go limp and he slings me over his shoulder, shutting the door and adjusting me in such a way as to remind my ribs that they're not fully healed yet. I keep my eyes slitted, trying to watch what's going on around me, but mostly all I can see is Slade's belt pouch.

He takes his time, walk cocky and self-assured, waving to the guards with his free hand and making small talk like he walks around with bodies over his shoulder all the time. Which he probably does, given that he's a contract killer, but I still find the thought rather creepy, especially when I'm the body in question. 

The guards seem appropriately impressed, one being brave enough to lift my head by the hair to study my face before 'escorting' Mr. Wilson and his prize to Blockbuster's private office. At least I assume its his private office. I'm not taking the chance of peeking more than once or twice with the entourage Deathstroke's picked up. There's at least four escorts and I hear two more voices before we pass through the door. Blockbuster's voice thrums though my very bones as he purrs Deathstroke's name. "You've brought the whelp. Excellently done, Terminator."

"Thanks. I want my kid and I want my money."

"Glad to see you have your priorities straight for once, Mr. Wilson. Family is so important."

I sneak a peek during this exchange to see a frightened teenager with long white hair, just like Slade's, sitting on an oversized armchair that makes her look about five, hands clenched tightly in her lap. She looks unhurt. Scared, naturally, but unhurt.

Blockbuster continues on with his family values speech. "The importance of fathers really is so underestimated in this day and age, wouldn't you agree my dear?"

Then I feel Slade stiffen as a sarcastic woman's voice says, "Hello, 'Daddy.'"

The answer he gives, after a long moment's pause, shocks me enough I almost blow the whole thing. "Addie?" His voice is slightly breathless with surprise and I'm one confused 'unconscious' superhero. I thought we were here to rescue Rose. Hell, I thought Adelaide Wilson was dead.

"You're dead." Apparently so did Deathstroke.

"I got better." I hear what is unmistakably the hammer of a gun click back into firing position.

Deathstroke plays it cool, letting me slide to the floor. I fall in a boneless heap, still playing dead and hoping its not just rehersal for the real thing in the very near future.

"How?"

"You, Slade. But then, its always been about you, hasn't it. You and your stubborn pride. Your pride that took my baby's voice, your pride that took both my babies' lives." Her voice is calm, emotionless in a way that screams danger. She's going to kill him. Or try her best.

"Both my sons are dead because of you and your stupid pride. This little girl's mother is dead because of your stupid pride. I died because of your stupid, worthless, useless pride!" Her voice goes up like nails on a chalkboard and I try not to wince at the level of seething hatred and madness in her tone. I know Slade can take a bullet and not even flinch, but I'm pretty sure his ex-wife over there knows it too, and I don't wanna think about what she's got that gun loaded with that she thinks she can stand there and point it at him and expect him to be afraid. I think he's a bit thrown, but then who wouldn't be in this situation?

"They were my sons too, Addie."

"Shut up! Don't you dare try to claim that you were any kind of a father to either of them. Teaching a boy to shoot doesn't make you a father. You were too busy with your work, too caught up in being 'the best' to be a father to my sons. You killed them both because of your God-damned ego. And that's how I knew you'd end up here." 

I sneak another look. Everyone's forgotten about me while Addie and Slade perform their version of Kramer vs. Kramer. Well, there's one thing gone right. Addie stabs a finger at Rose, hissing at Slade, whose face I can't see.

"Your damn pride. The Great Deathstroke's ego wouldn't allow him to lose another child, oh no. What'll it be this time, Slade? Her eyes for your pride? Maybe her fingers? Or are you just going to do what the kidnappers want this time, like you should have done with Joseph?"

"What do the kidnappers want this time, Addie." His voice is tired and... old. I realize Slade's old enough to be my father for the first time since I've known him.

"I want you dead for what you've done to me and mine."

Slade's voice is entirely too reasonable. "And what about Rose and the boy, here?" He nudges me with his boot. Thanks for the attention, big guy. "You going to take someone else's children away from them just to kill me?"

"Rose is free to go." Blockbuster sounds very amused. Glad someone's enjoying the show. "The boy is mine. I'll even give Rose the money I was going to pay you for the job. I'm feeling magnanimous."

Slade's voice is dry. "And you've proven yourself so trustworthy, too. Sorry Desmond, no deal."

I tense, bracing myself for an attack on the guards near the door. Adelaide's voice confirms my suspicions.

"I knew you'd say that."

She fires, and all hell breaks loose.

I push off the ground with my hands, catching guard number one under the chin with the heel of my good leg, and he goes down, spraying bullets. I hear Rose scream and Addie curse as I catch the other guard in the side of the head with my cast-covered leg, spinning to look where Rollie is before backflipping to my feet and barring the door. Addie and Slade are duking it out, both of them moving too fast, hitting too hard for either of them to be human. Blockbuster is attempting to get his hands on Rose, who's wisely decided to make a run for it. She still looks unhurt, at least. Then the other four goons burst through the door and my time is taken up with fighting them off while avoiding being shot. Addie and Slade keep up their verbal assault while they fight.

"You sorry son of a bitch! Going to make it three for three, huh? Couldn't live without the hat trick, could you?"

She fires again and blows a hole in the wall big enough for me to crawl through. Slade is fast, but so is she. She's got the gun trained on him again even as he's finishing up the backflip that took him out of range.

"Addie, stop it and for God's sake listen to me! You're going to get both of you killed!"

He aims one kick after another at his ex-wife's gun hand, but she manages to block them all.

"Shut up! It wasn't enough that I divorced you. I should have killed you instead of just taking your eye."

And that's all the attention I can afford that fight because I've just come into Goon Central Station. Wisely leaving Addie and Slade to their marriage counseling, they go after the limping apparently just-woke-up walking wounded guy. (That would be me). First one goes down easy with a boot to the head. What is it about henchmen with glass jaws, I swear. You'd think they'd realize it after the first five times and go into something a little less physical, like boxing. Taking a dive for Mike Tyson has to be easier than this.

Guy number two has a few moves on him, and I can hear Blockbuster roaring himself up into a fine old rage. This means I've got about ten seconds before Desmond goes nuclear and starts bringing down the house -- literally.

"Addie, would you listen to the man? Joey wouldn't want you guys -- hey!"

Okay, so maybe bringing up Joe wasn't the best idea, but you don't have to shoot the messenger. Guy number two finally goes down and I catch a glimpse of Rose clocking one of them with a handy chair. Score one for the good guys. If she lives she might even fit in with the Titans. Wonder if she's got any special abilities...

And, ow. I stagger back as the guy connects one punch, then two. 'Keep your mind on what you're doing, Boy Blunder,' says Babs' voice in my head. I sock the guy, plain old-fashioned haymaker, and send him flying into his buddy. Blockbuster grabs Deathstroke and holds him high overhead, face about purple and the veins in his neck standing out like ropes. Then Addie shoots Blockbuster. Whoa.

"Let him go you cretin! He's MINE!"

Addie has her gun pointed at Blockbuster and he's... I think I can see daylight through him. Well, flourescent light. He tosses Deathstroke away like he's some kind of rag doll and grabs Addie by the neck, rumbling like a freight train.

"You will pay for that, woman."

Everyone's stopped to watch in sick fascination, goons and good guys alike. Slade hauls himself up and screams "no!" just as someone slams into me from behind. Okay, not everyone I guess. I twist around, throwing the guy off me and into Desmond, and the guy just bounces off. Man, I'd forgotten how massive Blockbuster is. His other hand goes around Addie's wrist, forcing her to drop the gun with a sickening crack. It clatters to the floor as he rumbles.

"My agreement with you and the little girl did not, to my memory, include you shooting me. Therefore I'm declaring it, and you, null and void." Deathstroke hollers as the two minions left guarding the door burst in guns drawn. I kick the guy on the left and chop at the guy on the right at the same time and manage to get them both to drop their weapons. Then there's a click and Rose's voice sings out.

"Everybody freeze."

The guys I'm fighting actually do and I turn to see what the hell is up. Rose is holding some sticks of what look like modeling clay complete with digital timer attached in one hand. In the other is the gun Addie dropped. She's got it pointed at Blockbuster's head.

"You are not welshing on our deal now, Blockbuster. You promised us him." She nods towards Deathstroke and color me confused but wasn't she the hostage in all this?

Blockbuster doesn't move. Deathstroke does, coming out from behind him to look at Rose, moving slowly, hands in the air. "Its alright honey, I'm going to get you out of here." Slade has apparently not been keeping up with the conversation.

"You killed my mother. You killed her sons. Hell, you killed her." She nods in Addie's direction. Addie just hangs from Blockbuster's grip, watching intently. She smiles as she sees Slade jerk back. "That's right, Slade. You walked right into this."

Slade turns to regard her. She keeps talking, gloating.

"Oh the famous bounty hunter, always gets his man. Or woman. Well, you're getting something this time, alright. You're getting yours. I found Rose and told her everything you've done in your sad sorry excuse for a life. I told her about Grant and Joe and her mother, how you destroy everything you touch, everything you claim to care for. We decided you needed to be taught a lesson and who better to teach it than the two people you've hurt the most? Mr. Desmond kindly agreed to help if we would take care of you."

And she looks at me. I can't believe this. My friends mom tried to kill me. "What? Addie you... why?"

She shrugs. "Nothing personal. Joseph always thought highly of you. But Mr. Desmond wanted you dead and in such a way that it wouldn't bring the Bat down on him. So I attacked you and made it look like Slade did it. On the off chance he escaped this little ambush the Bat would hunt him down for us to avenge your death."

Now I looked at Rose. She had that mad Wilson gleam in her eye. God, what is with this family? "You so deserve this, Daddy."

I do not have time for this crap.

"Rose, listen to me. You do not want to do this."

Rose looks at me like I'm dumb.

"Okay, maybe you do want to do this. You've actually put a lot of thought and planning into it. But I mean, look, you've won, right? You lured him here, he didn't have a clue you were behind it. Look at his face."

I motion to him as he stands motionless, watching Rose, eyes narrowed. Addie's stopped talking and is turning a rather pale shade of blue as Blockbuster takes advantage of the distraction to choke her into unconsciousness. Or maybe he just doesn't know his own strength.

"You got him. The great Slade Wilson, humbled at last. Walked right into it with both eyes - well okay, one eye - open. You kill him now its over for him. But you let him live, he's gotta face down everyone knowing a fifteen year old girl got the better of him. His own daughter. Think about it, Rose. This guy's pride led him to kill both his sons."

Slade gives me a look of death. Hey, work with me, I'm trying to save your life and the life of the girl I love, asshole.

"Just imagine how a blow like this must be eating him alive."

Rose looks from me to Slade, to me, to Addie, to Slade. She's thinking hard. I make my voice soothing, inching closer to her.

"You've got your revenge, Rose. You've got him. You don't need to--"

"Screw that."

And she shoots him. There's a hole in his chest the size of my freaking head. He drops like a hammered ox and she drops the gun, looking aghast at the damage done. I grab the C4 as Blockbuster drops Addie, snagging Rose by the neck in turn and lifting her high, looking at me smugly.

"Now then. Where was I, before I was so rudely interrupted. Oh yes, seeking your demise. I will wring this little girl's neck like a dishrag if I don't see your blood on this floor by the count of five, Nightwing."

I look at the C4, then at Blockbuster. What's he want me to do, eat it? "If I blow this we all go."

Blockbuster looks unconcerned. "I'm sure you know half a dozen ways to die that don't require you taking any innocent bystanders with you. One. Two."

I roll my eyes, look at the gun on the floor.

"Three." Rose sputters, kicking, her tiny hands beating against Roland's massive fists.

"Four... Fi-" There's a dull thud and Roland Desmond's eyes widen in shock before he topples over slowly. Rose manages to throw herself to the side and I fling myself at Blockbuster's remaining conscious goons, dispatching them while holding the C4 above my head. The timer isn't counting down, thankfully, but that doesn't mean time isn't running out all the same. Babs. I look over and Slade stands behind Roland, his hand over the now fist-sized hole in his chest.

"Son of a --" Deathstroke kicks viciously at Blockbuster's side before going to help Rose stand, dragging her towards the door. He looks at me. "I thought you were in a hurry."

Hey, don't have to tell me twice. "You're gonna take her?"

He moves past me without looking. "She's my daughter." Blockbuster stirs, groaning and I decide Slade's got the right idea. Roland'll keep. I follow him out the door.

Deathstroke explains to Rose that he didn't kill her mother, though he does admit she did indirectly die because of him as we speed towards Gotham. Rose is all kinds of distraught about shooting him, oddly enough.

"I thought I killed you! I thought you were dead and I was all alone!"

Slade hesitantly strokes her hair. "It was a good shot. Normal man would've been."

"I was so mad at you. I just wanted you dead. But once you were it hit me that..."

Slade chuckles. "Takes more than that to kill me, sweetheart. I'm not going anywhere. Not for awhile." He wipes her cheek with one gloved hand. I just keep my eyes on the road. "You get that temper from me, you know."

She looks up at him timidly. "It was a good shot, wasn't it."

Slade glances at me, a weird mixture of pride and admonition in his voice. "Right in the heart."

I drop Slade and his nutso daughter off at a Wottaburger just off the last exit before Gotham. He goes in the bathroom and returns with a vial of his blood. I don't even say thank you, just tell him to get her some counseling. I make for the Bay Bridge. There's a cave there with a motorcycle with my name on it. I gun it onto the highway and activate the helmet com.

"Status," I bark tersely, sounding like the old man himself.

"She's fading fast. How far are you?" Bruce sounds grim. And unsurprised. He doesn't ask if I have the blood. He knows he wouldn't be hearing from me if I didn't.

"Ten minutes at the most."

I ride right up to the back door of the clinic. Leslie's waiting for me and snatches the vial from my hand before I can even turn off the engine. I appreciate the haste and follow her in, not bothering to secure the bike. I don't want to waste the time. Tim's in the hallway, waiting for me, Alfred standing silently in the background, watching the swinging double doors Leslie just ran through.

"She's... you got what she needed, right?"

I nod and sag into a chair, glancing at Alfred. His face is expressionless. I look at Tim and there's a whole novel of I don't wanna know. She's bad.

"She'll be ok." I say it as much for myself as for him. He sits next to me and pats my knee awkwardly. I put him in a half-hearted headlock, scrubbing my knuckles against his scalp. He forces a protesting laugh. Just another normal day for us, right? Maybe if we pretend hard enough that everything's okay, it will be.

I awaken to aching all over. Even my teeth ache. Must be from the horrible vending machine coffee. I sit up in the hard plastic chair gingerly, rubbing the back of my neck. Someone's elevated my rather swollen leg on another chair for me while I slept. My money's on Alfred. I look up at Bruce standing in front of me and suddenly I can't breathe. I just look at him blankly.

"She wants to see you."

I exhale and give him the first genuine smile of the last twenty-four hours, leaping to my feet. Broken leg? What broken leg? I feel like I could fly.

The alarm goes off and I squint blearily at it. Six AM. Crap. I'm going to be late for work. Again. I limp towards the bathroom, trying not to make too much noise and wake up Tim. He had a late night of it. Bruce insisted on going on patrol as soon as Babs woke up. She's going to be fine, in fact she was almost back to her old self when Leslie demand I let her sleep. She thinks she's pushing herself way too fast but Babs claims she feels fine and the tests back her up. Leslie thinks this is all happening way too fast to be for real. I wonder if that could also be from Slade, but honestly I don't much care. She's going to be okay.

I'm in a great mood for being up so early. I use up all of Tim's shampoo and write 'The Master' in the fog on the mirror. I also hide all the towels except the one I used and head downstairs, trying not to snicker. Alfred made buckwheat pancakes for the occasion. Just like old times. I make a mental note to come home more often.

"Hey, its Calamity Wayne!"

Guess they decided on my nickname after all. I'm greeted with backslaps and high-fives and catcalls of 'way to go, hero!' My cover story is I got blood poisoning from the broken leg I got helping my friend reroof their house. I'm on desk duty until the cast is off. A month of being chained to a desk. I guess its better than being chained to a cement block at the bottom of the Harbor. I guess. Safer at least. Verzetti slaps me on the back, causing me to spill coffee all over myself.

Yeah, its gonna be one of those days.

I don't mind a bit. 


End file.
